


every choice a step to haven

by masked



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel in the Bunker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Horror, M/M, Memory Alteration, POV Castiel, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masked/pseuds/masked
Summary: Angels have always watched over humanity, walking among them for thousands of years. They are not friends nor acquaintances; merely shepherds who guide humans towards the right path. This purpose has been long behind Castiel ever since he's become Dean and Sam Winchester's irreplaceable companion. As long as they need him by their sides, Castiel is content. It should've been perfect.It isn't.Things take a sour turn when he becomes involved with a case and it starts to separate him and the Winchesters. There must be a way to go back to how things used to be, or he risks having nothing be the same ever again.Choose wisely, Castiel.





	1. Chapter 1

There is bright yellow graffiti on the side of Bobby’s house, an attempt to scrub it away evident.

Castiel frowns upon seeing it, and looks up to soak up the sight of the blue morning sky for the last time.

It’s a nice day outside. It’d be a shame to be stuck in the house all day and be unable to appreciate it.

Castiel turns away from the sky to step inside Bobby’s house. He wishes he could spend time with his family and enjoy the day, but there is still too much to be done.

Bobby's floorboard creaks under his feet, giving away to his weight. He wonders if there is anyone else in here other than himself and Bobby. He hopes so.

He mumbles a greeting to Bobby who's sitting at his desk with the usual piles and piles of books on top, and sinks into the sofa himself. The fireplace is going even though it’s warm inside and out, and Castiel belatedly realizes how cold he is compared to the rest of the room. He shivers a little, and huddles closer to the fire with his own case file in hand.

There’s a rattle in the kitchen, and Castiel jumps at the sound. Sam walks out from the kitchen, looking just as surprised as Castiel feels, and immense relief settles in his bones at Sam's presence.

“Sam,” Castiel says, looking up at Sam’s tall figure. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sam replies, and he hands Castiel a cup of coffee that smells divine to Castiel’s tired body. Castiel gratefully takes it, latches onto it like a life-line, and takes a sip with a content sigh. “Are you working on something?”

“Yes.” Castiel takes another sip of the coffee. Just as strong and familiar as the first. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” Sam grins. “I was just helping Bobby out with a small case in Indiana.”

Bobby grunts out a positive, never looking up from the current book he’s glued to.

Sam peers at the documents Castiel is holding. “What are your leads?”

“Evidence points to one, but the way the victim was killed points to another,” Castiel murmurs. “I’m guessing that it’s a new hybrid of two kinds of monsters. An amalgam.”

“A hybrid?”

Castiel nods. “Or a different breed altogether. I’m not clear on that part yet.”

Bobby clears his throat, and Castiel looks his way. Bobby wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You telling me there’s a brand new mutant creature none of us know about out there somewhere?”

Castiel tries shrugging, like he’s seen Dean do many times before when he has no clearer answer to offer. “It’s the same principle as how ghosts and poltergeists come from the same breed of monsters. Poltergeists are a subset, but still categorized as a ghost. Their motive might be similar, but their methods and—”

“I got it.”

Castiel nods. He understands the level of horror Bobby is displaying. “There are many things humans don’t know of. Not even me.”

“How are we supposed to find something an angel doesn’t even know about?” Bobby shoots back. Again, all Castiel can offer is his shrug. Bobby grunts his displeasure.

“Anyway,” Castiel continues, looking back and forth between Bobby and Sam, “it’s a possibility I’m willing to consider.”

“Consider all you want,” Bobby says, “but we gotta get this ball rolling sooner than later. This ain’t no laughing matter.”

Castiel nods, and takes one final sip of his coffee. It gets rid of the sour taste that’s developed in his mouth from this conversation.

Sam pats him on the shoulder, perhaps as a way to offer some sense of condolences. “You’re doing great, Cas. I’m sure you’re doing everything you can, right?”

He is. He always has been. He’s not sure what his ‘best’ is anymore. “Yes.”

“And hey, everyone needs a breather now and then. I was actually about to head back out, get ready for the dinner we had planned. You’re still up for that, right?”

“Dinner?”

“You know, to celebrate Dean coming back from his hunt.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“Um.” It’s with a prickle of guilt that he recalls a vague conversation of someone telling him about that in the past. How could he have forgotten about Dean’s return? “No, of course not.”

“Great.” Sam regards Castiel, and his pile of documents, and hums. “You wanna join me? Take a break from all this?”

“I should really figure everything out before I do,” Castiel says, even if his heart is already set on the decision. He  _really_ shouldn’t allow himself to indulge in peace with the underlying urgency of his situation that nags at him to keep working. To keep going.

“Oh, c’mon.” Sam nudges him with his foot, and Castiel frowns down at Sam’s leg. Sam shoots him a grin. “I know this is important, but it’s good to let your brain rest for a while. Maybe this sort of thing is exactly what you need to get it going again.”

“Maybe,” Castiel says reluctantly, letting himself be persuaded further. “A break _would_ be nice.” Spending time with the Winchesters—with Dean—would be even nicer.

Sam’s grin widens, and Castiel finds himself rising from the ratty old couch. Bobby glances up from underneath his cap, but he doesn’t say anything too unkind. Out of habit, Castiel reaches out for Sam, stretches his wings, and takes flight.

He lands them just outside of the bunker. He could’ve delivered them inside, but he wants to feel sunlight against his skin before they go back in.

Which reminds him. “Have you seen the graffiti on the side of Bobby’s house?” Castiel asks.

“What? No. What graffiti?”

“It was yellow,” Castiel supplies helpfully, but Sam shakes his head.

“What did it say?”

“It was gone by the time I found it. Maybe it was a protection sigil of some sort, though I’m not sure why Bobby would try to clean it up if it was.”

“Who knows,” Sam says distantly, already heading down the stairs for the door. “You coming?”

Castiel pauses. He looks back up at the sky. He could stay like this the whole day, he thinks, basking in the warm sunlight and trying to find an end to that blueness.

“It’s so nice out,” he says wistfully.

Sam huffs, perhaps out of amusement that a creature like Castiel can still enjoy something as mundane as a nice day. But it isn’t mundane—far from it. The entire universe actively works to give them such a perfect day —the clouds, the Sun, the rotation of the Earth and the moon and the rest of stars and planets and void—and it would be a shame to waste it inside.

“C’mon,” Sam says. “You’ll get a chance to see that again soon.”

Castiel gives the sky one last glance, and follows Sam inside.

The bunker is nice and orderly, just as he remembers. It’s big and spacious, warm and welcoming under the soft orange lights. The thundering sound of the metal steps after it bears the weight of their feet is familiar, as are the big white pillars that keep this place from collapsing. Castiel may not have many memories here, but it’s the place he’s most familiar with aside from Heaven. It’s a place where Dean and Sam can finally stay. It’s their home.

“Okay,” Sam says, car keys in hand. “Pizza sound good to you?”

“I’m an angel. I don’t need to eat,” Castiel replies automatically. His stomach growls. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sam says slowly. “Why don’t you use the shower? It’s still a few hours before Dean’s here.”

“I don’t…” need to shower either, Castiel almost says, but even he smells the rank that he’s built up over the past few days, wafting just under his nose. “Good idea.”

“My ideas are always good.” Sam eyes his trench coat, and his suit underneath. “You want me to throw your clothes in the wash?”

His hand shoots up to his collar. It’s not wet and sticky from blood. “I can do it myself,” he says.

Sam levels him with a look, and shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

After stripping down to throw his clothes in the laundry, Castiel goes to look for the Winchesters’ bathroom. He’s never had to use it before, and it takes him a little while before he can find it. It looks oddly familiar, though it’s curious that it’s familiar to him at all. He fiddles with the shower, and lets the stream of water hit his face. He yelps when the temperature suddenly jumps up, and the sad trickle of water becomes even sadder. Castiel tries the handle again to no productive outcome, so Castiel deals with it by standing under the irritating trickle of hot-and-occasionally-lukewarm water. He won’t complain—it’s still a chance for him to become clean again, so he tries to enjoy every last drop of water that lets him scrub himself down.

Castiel decides that he dislikes showers.

He pats himself dry, even though a musky, wet smell still follows him out of the shower. He sniffs himself, and comes to the conclusion that the distinctive smell must be from the shower itself. When he reaches the laundry, his clothes have been cleaned thoroughly with no odd stains here and there.

He stands in front of a mirror in the bathroom, still clutching onto the only outfit he owns. Without his clothes on, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. He’s forlorn and foreign under critical eyes, and he wants to jump out of his skin. He quickly puts on his suit, his blue tie, his trench coat. He sighs in relief when the clothes settle neatly against his too naked skin.

He’s back to himself now. This is who he’s always been to them.

He tugs at the tie a bit. He doesn’t remember how loose he used to have it, but he thinks it feels tighter. Castiel heads out the door, loosening the tie around his neck.

He registers a low murmur that’s Sam’s voice, and a bloom of conversation that follows after. There’s a small tingling in his chest as he walks towards the scene, as familiar as the kitchen he finds. It’s empty. He frowns. He thought he heard—

An arm slings around his shoulders. “Hey, buddy.”

Dean’s voice tickles his ear, and an unkempt buzz settles in his stomach. The touch burns through the thickness of his coat, and Castiel inclines his head to meet Dean’s eyes, green and endless like the universe. Just as he remembers them. “Hello, Dean.”

“It’s been forever, Cas!” Dean pats his back with a carefree grin, all teeth and the sides of his eyes crinkled. His smile is infectious, and Castiel smiles back. It really has been far too long.

“I assume the hunt went alright?”

“You see me walking and talking here? Hell yeah, it did. Ganked those sons of bitches like it was nothing.” Dean nudges him, and indulges him with a gentle smile. “Really could’ve used your help, though.”

Castiel nods, a flutter in his heart. “I wish I could’ve been there.”

Sam walks into the kitchen, holding a six-pack of beer. Dean looks between him and Castiel, and shrugs with one of his shoulders, like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine, Cas. You’re busy with your own shit.”

“I was. I am.”

“So no need,” Dean says good-naturedly. “As long as you drop by when we need you.”

Castiel swallows thickly. The buzz in his stomach becomes a malicious twist. “I know.”

Dean’s eyes are a liquid pool against the light. He smiles warmly. “Cool,” he says, making the one syllable sound like he’s implying otherwise, but Castiel is never too sure with Dean. Before he can chase after this particular thought, Dean pats him on the back one more time before he announces, “Let’s get this dinner going! I’m starving.”

Dean and Sam sit down in their respective seats, and Castiel hesitates on where he should be for far too long. Dean notices, because he must notice, and pats the seat beside him to direct him. Castiel is glad for it.

They put down a slice of pizza and a bottle of beer in front of him out of courtesy. He doesn’t eat the pizza, but he takes mindful sips of his beer to show that he appreciates the sentiment. Mostly, Castiel sits back and watches the brothers as they laugh over a joke he doesn’t understand.

He’s just content to be here at all.

The evening dies down to a quiet lull, and Castiel basks into the easy atmosphere. Dean takes a swig of his beer, and smacks his lips together in thought. “So, Cas.”

Castiel looks up from his hands. “Yes?”

“You gonna tell me about that case of yours?”

And suddenly, the illusion is lost, and Castiel is projected back to the reality of the situation. Here he is avoiding his responsibilities when he should be out there working to get things right. He sits up straighter, humbled by the line of thought.

“Not much to tell.” Castiel puts down his bottle of beer. He plays with the residue of water that’s left behind by the cold bottle until he eventually looks up to meet Dean’s eyes. “What?”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Cas, you’re doing the best you can. There’s no shame in that.”

When Castiel fails to answer, Dean presses his lips together into a thin, displeased line. “You’re letting this get to your head too much.”

Castiel closes his eyes. The words sink like stones into the otherwise calm surface of a lake. “How do you deal with it?”

“With what?”

“With… this.” There’s a sour taste at the back of his throat. “I’m starting to learn that the nature of my intention really doesn’t matter in the big scheme of things.”

Dean pauses momentarily, the beer bottle raised halfway to his lips. He points the end of it towards Castiel. “See, this is what I mean. You’re letting it get to you.”

Castiel bristles in his seat, because he’s right. Dean sniffles, and rubs his cheek while he thinks about what to say. Castiel waits.

“Look,” Dean finally says, and shuffles closer. Their knees almost touch. “You’re gonna go nuts if you continue on like this. Me, I always focus on the good stuff.” He gestures at the brightly lit kitchen, at Sam, at Castiel. “Focus on what you’re here for.”

Castiel’s eyes do focus then, onto Dean. Onto Dean and Sam.

He nods. He knows what he’s here for. Right now, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. “I understand.”

Dean smiles, and takes a gulp of his beer as if to finalize his point.

It’s not a while longer until Sam quietly excuses himself to bed. He stands, and smiles down at Castiel. He claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel blinks up. “For what?”

“For coming here. For sticking around.”

“Oh.”

Sam laughs at whatever expression Castiel wears, and claps him on the shoulder one more time before he makes his leave. What a strange thing to be thanked for. He looks back to Dean slouching on his seat, waving a good night at his brother, and maybe Castiel understands after all.

It’s a quiet night. There’s not much noise in the bunker, save for the occasional whirrs and clicks of the machines and spells working behind the walls to keep this place safe. He studies the details of some of the spells that are visible to his eyes, aware that his hand is slipping off the bottle and his eyelids are heavily drooping down when he’s startled by a gentle tap on his shoulder.

“What?”

Castiel doesn’t brush the hand away, but it leaves him anyway. “Don’t go falling asleep on me just yet,” Dean says with a slight upward curl resting on his lips.

Castiel shifts in his seat. His back hurts. “Angels don’t sleep.”

“Uh huh.”

Dean Winchester is a wonder; both Winchesters always have been, but especially in Dean’s utter lack of respect for what Castiel is, and lack of the restraints that usually comes with knowledge of what he is. It’s something Dean completely ignores by treating Castiel with unquestionable ease, almost like he’s one of his own.

Almost like he’s one of his own.

Dean starts to clean up the mess that was once their dinner. Castiel helps, not pausing to linger his thoughts on the accidental brushes of their hands when they both reach for the bottles of beers.

After they’re finished, Dean stretches with the back of his muscle taut against his one-layer shirt. He catches Castiel staring, and smirks. Something about it makes Castiel frown in confusion.

“Wanna get some fresh air?” Dean suggests.

Castiel would love to.

They’re shrouded in the dark cold night with nothing but the stars to accompany them, and a single moth that buzzes around the light over the bunker’s door.

Dean lets out a breath that blows away into the oblivion of the endless dark night sky. “Getting colder out, huh?”

Castiel doesn’t feel it—not as intensely as Dean can—but he can relate. “Yes.” He notes Dean’s flushed cheeks from the cold.

They stand there, with Dean observing the universe and Castiel observing Dean. Dean shifts on his feet slightly. Dean has these moments as well—the quiet ones where no words are needed, so unusual but not unwelcome from the Dean who’s usually so brash, so loud, so active and sure. Either way, he fills up the world with his presence.

Dean clears his throat. “So, that was fun. Glad I got to see you and all.”

Castiel nods in agreement. He’s glad he came. “I’m glad, too.”

Dean smiles. “We should do this more often,” he says. “Meeting up. Grabbing dinner together like this. Almost forgot what you even looked like.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

For some reason, it makes Dean laugh quietly under his breath, and the usual hard edges he carries around with him are gone for the night. “I missed you.”

Castiel lets the words soak in. It warms his face the longer he lets it sit between them, even as the night chill seeps into his bones. A steady pulse of warmth tugs at him, growing from his chest and spreading throughout his body.

“The feeling is mutual,” Castiel finally replies.

Dean’s slightly crooked smile blooms into a full grin, and _oh._ To see him like this, with his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink from the cold, and positively _glowing_. It’s all worth it.

Dean rips his eyes away from the sky and onto the ground, almost shyly as he says, “It’s late.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you… uh, stay the night? Unless you have somewhere to be—”

“I’ll stay,” Castiel replies a little too quickly, maybe a little too eagerly. Dean smiles anyway, and bobs his head.

“Alright,” Dean says quietly.

Dean is smiling fondly at him, and Castiel hesitates to ask about what’s been on his mind ever since he saw Dean. Right now, it feels like a good moment to bring it up. “Dean.”

“Hm?”

“The last time we talked, we didn’t part well.”

Dean stills. “What’d you mean?”

“The angels,” Castiel continues, unable to look up from the ground. “If I had just listened to you, maybe they wouldn’t have—”

“We’re good, Cas,” Dean cuts. Castiel blinks. “Let’s just focus on the now.”

It’s… not the answer he expected. But it’s the one he wants. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Dean echoes. “Well, I’m beat. Let’s get some sleep in us.”

Castiel feels exhaustion cloaking him then, and he follows Dean’s lead, wondering if he’s imagined the abrupt ending of that conversation. He watches Dean for anything that seems out of place, but Dean is only happy to show Castiel which room he should use and making sure Castiel is comfortable before he retires to his own room for the night.

It’s a simple room. There is a bed, and a lamp that lights up the room. Yet Castiel almost feels he’s unfairly being rewarded for something by being invited to share this space. He is not here for a case that Dean and Sam have, nor for a world-ending problem.

He is here simply because he can be.

Castiel lies in his bed, and closes his eyes. He sleeps.

* * *

Castiel jolts awake. His heart pounds in his chest as he stares up at the white ceiling. He takes a deep breath, letting the air circulate his lungs that expand, and deflate as he exhales.

He sits up, wishing for a cup of coffee. He shuffles out of the bed he’s not used to, disoriented from the blanket of sleep that still fog his thoughts. He stumbles out the door, and follows the source of the scent into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose when he smells the same wet, musky smell within the aromatic coffee. There’s a cup neatly sitting on the table, the friendly sight of steam inviting him in.

And Dean.

“Morning,” Dean grins, straightening against the counter.

“Good morning.”

Dean gestures at the cup of coffee on the counter, and Castiel grabs it while Dean raids the pantry for another cup for himself. Dean looks more comfortable here than Castiel has ever felt about… anywhere.

“I like this bunker,” Castiel offers. “It’s orderly.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean nods. “Kinda want a ping-pong table in here somewhere.”

Castiel smiles. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a game, right?”

“Sure is.” Dean takes a sip of his coffee, inviting Castiel to do the same.

Castiel breathes in the aroma. It’s strong and familiar, as always. It helps to rid of the other horrid stench. He smiles down at it. “You know, you used to chew the berries.”

Dean doesn’t look up from his cup. “Yeah?”

“I remember when you first discovered it. Folk tale is true, by the way. You learned it from the goats.”

“I know,” Dean replies, and leans off the counter. “You told me before.”

Castiel blinks up. “I did?”

Dean’s phone starts ringing, and Dean holds up a finger to answer the phone. “Hey, Sam.”

Dean turns away from Castiel, and leaves the kitchen to take the rest of the call. Dean’s cup of coffee still sits in front of Castiel, steam rising from the white mug. Castiel taps his own mug in his hand and takes a sip of his coffee again, only to wince at the sudden foreign taste. A taste that must’ve been present this whole time, but something he hadn’t noticed until now. He looks down at the swirling black liquid in his cup. Nothing’s changed, but there’s no mistaking the faint metallic taste at the back of his throat. It wasn’t Dean that he’d told about the coffee berries before. It was—

“Cas,” Dean calls patiently, and Castiel snaps to attention.

“What?”

“I said, do you have any plans for today?”

“I.” Castiel gathers his scrambled thoughts back together. His heart beats faster than normal. “I thought I’d work on my case.”

“Okay. Sam’s found me and him a case, so I’m gonna go ahead with that. But, uh…” Dean smiles sheepishly. “What do you say we grab lunch later, huh? That café you thought I’d like, with the apple pie crepes.”

The taste of blood remains in his mouth. The offer itself is enough to cover up any bitterness he might feel for not being offered a place to help out on their case. He’s busy with his own, he reminds himself. Castiel nods with a smile. His lips hurts continuously, the sting amplifying after every pulse of pain. Like a heartbeat. “Alright.”

“Cool.” Dean gestures at the door. “You can stay here and research, if you want. I grabbed your stuff from Bobby’s.”

“Oh. That was thoughtful of you.”

Dean grins in response, and leaves.

The bunker is eerily quiet without either Dean or Sam. Castiel can hear every rustle in his clothes as he moves through the bunker, the light buzzing over him, the sound of water running through a drain somewhere, and all of his thoughts. He dismisses them all in favour of sitting down with the photos of the victims laid out before him, studying them for any sort of clues he might’ve missed the first time. All of the victims’ ghastly sunken eyes stare back at him.

These people were gone before he could help them, but maybe he can help the people who might be next in line. Castiel peers closer at one of the photos. This man feels… familiar. Maybe it’s because he’s been staring at these photos for what feels like forever, but it’s as if he’s seen him somewhere before. His face is white and empty, and it’s impossible to read exactly what he was feeling at the time this was taken. A blank state. If only Castiel could warn him.

Castiel blinks. Warn him of what? As far as he knows, the man is already far out of reach for the living. He puts the paper down, and looks at the rest of the photos again. In the silence of the bunker, they look as if they’re sleeping.

Castiel’s phone rings.

Click. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Dean’s voice says.

“Dean. Why didn’t you pray to me?”

“Oh.” Dean’s chuckle reverberates through the phone, and down to the flutter in Castiel’s stomach. It warms up the cold room. “Guess it slipped my mind. Are you free right now?”

Castiel eyes the files in front of him. “Yes.”

“You wanna zap on over to where I am now? I’m at the café we talked about.”

“Of course.”

Castiel stretches his wings, and takes flight.

The café is bustling with activity, but Castiel’s eyes are naturally drawn to where Dean sits on the balcony, slouched in a small white chair. He’s fidgeting with a fork with his eyes darting around in search of Castiel as he takes a sip of water. Dean stops jiggling his foot when he sees him, and waves him over. His eyes trail down and back up. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Castiel sits down, and looks around the balcony. This exact spot, this exact place—something about all of this is familiar, and it’s the strangest feeling. Almost like he’s lived this moment before. There’s a waitress walking up to them, and she looks familiar, too. He shares this observation with Dean, who says it’s probably déjà vu.

“I heard it happens when you don’t get enough sleep,” Dean says, and frowns with concern over their two plates of apple pie crepes. Dean’s ordered for both of them, and the table is too small that it can barely squeeze in both plates along with a vase of zinnias as a centerpiece. “Are you not getting enough sleep?”

“I don’t need to sleep, Dean. I’m an angel.” Castiel pointedly looks at the plate in front of him. “I don’t need to eat, either.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t, right?”

“I suppose not.”

Castiel cuts up a small bite as Dean watches. There’s a burst of flavour which dances on his tongue: apples mixed with brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon. Dean grins at Castiel’s surprise.

“Good, right?”

“It’s… intense.” Castiel chews thoroughly, but he finds that the taste has no distinctive characteristics of its own. It’s exactly like how Castiel imagined it would taste. “It’s sweet.”

“Dude, it’s apple pie crepe. Not as good as actual pie, sure, but it’s practically the same thing. Why wouldn’t it be good?” Dean takes a big bite of his own and lets out an appreciative moan. “Fuck, so good.”

Dean scoops the rest of his vanilla ice cream on top of his crepe, and licks up every last bite with enthusiasm that Castiel can’t quite replicate, even though they’re eating the same food. Castiel likes it well enough.

Dean takes a moment to wipe the caramel sauce off his lips. “So. Any new breakthroughs on your case?”

“Not really. How about yours?”

“Ah, you know.” Dean waves his hand in front of him, a careless grin thrown on his face. “With me and Sam together, it was a breeze.”

Castiel smiles faintly. This time, the small stab he feels in his chest is less hurtful. “I’m sure.”

Dean searches his face, and Castiel cocks his head to the side as their eyes meet. “You know,” Dean drawls, “you don’t need to shoulder everything by yourself. You know that, right? You’re not alone anymore.”

There’s a buzz in his ears, and it’s like someone’s stuffed him full of cotton. There’s a sort of numbness that Castiel can’t repel, but he tries to smile so it would match the one Dean now wears. He tries to accept the confidence behind every word Dean speaks.

“I know,” Castiel replies. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean waits for a moment, and narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. Dean leans back in his chair. The taste of grace crackles at the back of Castiel’s throat. Forks clank on plates all around them, and their waitress takes their plates.

She nods at Castiel with a smile. “Cool coat.”

Within the sweet, clean scents of apples and crepes and coffee, there’s the faint smell akin to sewage again, the same wet rotting smell that’s been following him around. It must be drifting into the café from the streets. Dean doesn’t notice the smell. He looks content. The petals of the zinnias are too bright under the warm sunlight.

Dean nudges his shoulder, and Castiel blinks up at him. When did Dean stand up? “Hey,” Dean says quietly. “Ready to go back?”

The sweet, artificial smell of apples entices him. The petals of the zinnias sway in the wind. “Yes.”

Their waitress bids them goodbye, her bright green eyes crinkled with her smile.

* * *

Dean offers to listen to the details of the case, so Castiel unloads everything he knows. The names of the victims, how they were found, why he thinks there’s more to it than what it seems like. Dean doesn’t say much, only occasionally giving back an audible mumble to show that he’s listening with a definite frown settled on his brow as they drive back. After Castiel is finished, there’s a deliberate silence that is carved out hollow between them. He’s surprised to find how quickly the night has fallen when lunch only feels like a few hours ago.

Dean sighs.

“Are you… alright?” Castiel approaches carefully.

Dean scratches his nose. His eyes are set on the road, hard and unrelenting. “I guess.” He glances over at Castiel, and a burst of laughter that sounds wrong escapes him. “Seems like you know a whole lot about the case already, so I’m wondering why it’s not solved yet.”

“I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Dean.”

“Yeah, and what’s up with that? You’re an angel, man. Aren’t you supposed to, I don’t know, know all of God’s creatures by default or something?”

“I don’t know _everything_.”

“Ain’t that a surprise,” Dean mutters, and turns the wheel with more force than necessary.

Castiel grits his teeth, his good mood from the café deflating. He doesn’t wish to fight, especially when he just met Dean again after so long—but he hates it when Dean’s like this.

He watches the scenery pass by, but it’s too dark outside to make anything out. He’s not able to pay attention anyway, with Dean’s tense body beside him. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t.

There’s a sigh that pierces through the silence.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “Whatever, man. I gotta learn to lighten up, I guess.”

Dean loosens his grip on the wheel, turning the car around. Castiel stares at him. Should he be surprised by anything Dean does at this point? “Where are we going?”

“Let’s hit up a bar.” Dean taps his hands against the wheel. “From the sound of it, you need it. It’s good to loosen up once in a while.” Dean glances at him, meeting his eyes in the dark. A light passes by them, lighting up Dean’s sharp features in contrast. “Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then it’s decided.”

The bar feels as familiar to Castiel as the café had been, with a burly bartender in a baseball cap who nods at them upon their entry. He sets two bottles at the end of the bar for them.

“On the house,” he says, and leaves them by their corner.

There’s a game of archery that plays on the TV. It’s an empty bar, save for one other man to the side, chatting with the bartender. Under the low lighting of the bar, they’re in their own private world.

“So, Cas.” Dean takes a swig of his bottle. Their shoulders are almost touching. Always, almost touching. “Any plans after you tidy this case up?”

“I’m nowhere close to solving it.”

“C’mon, humour me. What about Heaven?”

“What about it?”

“You think you’re ever gonna go back one day?” Dean inclines his head slightly, giving Castiel just the right view of the way light dances in the greens of his eyes. “Leave this place, lock the door behind you, and never come back?”

Maybe it _is_ strange to have appointed himself as a guardian angel to Dean and Sam, staying near them all this time instead of returning to be with his brothers and sisters in Heaven. On the other hand, the Winchesters are a special case, not hesitant about jumping head-first into dangerous situations one would usually never find themselves in. Even if he himself was the dangerous situation for them at multiple points in their lives.

He plays with the label on the beer bottle, flicking at the edge where the glue has peeled off. There’s a lead weight lodged in between his lungs as he thinks about going back to Heaven at all. It’s his home—his family. Isn’t it where he really belongs?

“Maybe one day,” Castiel replies. He almost believes it himself.

“You should stay.”

Castiel pauses. It isn’t what he expects to hear. He lets out a huff to deflate himself. “Dean, you don’t mean that.”

“What?” Dean sits up straighter, and into Castiel’s space. The warmth of his shoulder leaves, but his face is so close now. If Castiel leans a little more to his left, their lips would touch. “Cas, of course I mean it. I want you to stay with us. There’s nothing I’d want more.”

Castiel inclines his head to meet Dean’s eyes, the man who has so much love to offer that his words drip with its overflow. They’re barely a breath away.

Castiel knows in the end that Dean will always come through for him. Above anything else, Dean is loyal to those he loves. Perhaps, during moments like this, Castiel is foolish enough to consider himself as one of those people, but what he _wants_ is…

Castiel surprises himself with this line of thought, and stops. He thought he didn’t need more than this. What they have already together should be enough, and it’s more than what he could ever ask for. It would be greedy of him to ask for more than this.

And it _is_ enough. All he has to do is convince himself of it.

“Isn’t there anything you want?” Dean continues. His Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he talks in a low voice, drawing Castiel’s eyes to it. “There’s got to be _something_.”

 _We’re going home_ , Dean had said. Castiel knew then, but maybe he just didn’t have the words to clearly define it. Maybe he still doesn’t. He doesn’t know. What he _does_ know is that there were bigger things at stake at the time than what _he_ wanted. There are still bigger things at stake. There are always bigger things at stake than Castiel’s want for Dean Winchester.

Castiel studies the freckles peppered across Dean’s face that are visible by the bar’s low lighting, and he knows that it’s the same now. He glances away from Dean’s lips, and focuses back on his bottle of beer.

“I already have everything I want.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. Castiel waits for Dean to call him out on his bullshit as he takes a gulp of his beer.

“Really?” Dean finally says, disbelief oozing out of him.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. It isn’t a lie. It isn’t the whole truth. It doesn’t matter. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you?” Above all, more than anything, Castiel wishes for… “Are you well?”

Dean grins automatically in response. “Never been better. And…” He glances at him. “If you and Sam are happy, then I’m happy, too.”

Before Castiel can say anything, their attention is ripped away from each other when the bartender loudly greets a delivery woman, who grins and nods at him and the man sitting in front of the bartender. Castiel recognizes the faint outline of a halo on the woman as the bartender introduces the man to her.

A cupid. He hopes she hasn’t had too much trouble with the current affairs of Heaven.

Castiel watches his sister at work while Dean gulps down the rest of his beer. She quietly makes sure to establish the man and the bartender together. She leaves without a single glance back at him. Maybe she didn’t notice him, or if she did, chose to ignore him and went about her ways. He’s not sure which idea he prefers.

He misses his kin. It’s different from how things used to be—when things used to be more simple, and more direct. If she had spoken more than a few words at him, the acknowledgement and the reminder of his position might’ve suffocated him. He’s not reminiscing—not with how things turned out to be—but he wonders about the what-ifs. Always with the what-ifs.

“Cas. Hey.” Dean waves a hand in front of his face. “C’mon, let’s go back.”

Castiel stares at the door the cupid walked out of. He registers the bartender laughing about something the man said. They look happy. He wonders just how much of that can be truly called theirs now.

He never used to question it before.

Castiel lets Dean lead him back out, and into the car. He rests his head against the window as Dean drives them back. The streets are empty, but he can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something he’s missing. He feels sick from the distinctive smell in the air, and absently rubs his arm.

“Cas,” comes Dean’s voice, along with Dean’s hand that grabs at Castiel’s. Dean squeezes. That gets Castiel’s attention. “Buddy, stay with me.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re not looking so hot.”

Castiel looks down at where Dean’s knuckles are almost white from the grip around his wrist. It hurts.

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes flicker over him for something to pinpoint. Maybe something to prove him wrong. When he doesn’t find anything, he lets go with a breath, and fixes his eyes back on the road.

When they pull into the road that leads to the bunker, Castiel already feels tension oozing out of his shoulders. The warm orange light beckons him, the bunker’s familiar door scribbled with unreadable old and new graffiti. There’s one he doesn’t recognize at all, splatters of yellow stark in contrast to the dark of the night.

“Was that one always there?” Castiel asks as they walk towards the door.

“What?” Dean looks at where Castiel points to, and shrugs. “Sure. You probably didn’t notice before.”

It isn’t a big deal. Dean doesn’t seem to think so anyway, as he whistles while he gets the key out. Castiel stares at it all the same, the nagging feeling of missing something apparent now more than ever. That graffiti. That colour. He’s definitely seen it somewhere before. Something in his mind fills up but refuses to tip over, and the smell gets stronger, that _smell_ —

“Cas?” Dean calls, and Castiel blinks. Dean’s holding the door open, and the light pours out to the dark night, illuminating Dean’s silhouette. “You coming?”

Castiel hesitates. He takes a look at the door one more time, but nothing holds his interest. He shakes his head free of thoughts. “Yes.”

Their footsteps echo in the hallway. The door to his room opens with a loud click. It’s the same room as the night before, though he really doesn’t need the bed or the space. When he tells Dean this, Dean scoffs.

“What are you gonna do, sit in the war room all night?”

“I can, if that’s what you want.”

“Well, what about you?” Dean shoots back. “What do you want?”

“I—”

There it is again. It’s odd to be given a choice when he was never given one before. It was always… one extreme or the other, both of which usually put himself and others in danger. Now that he has a semblance of peace, he has no idea what to do with it.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “It doesn’t matter either way, does it? Not in the—”

“There you go again, with the grand scheme, yada yada.” Dean grins delightfully at Castiel’s disapproving frown. “Your choice always makes a difference, Cas.”

He knows that. Dean was the one to teach him it all those years ago, again and again. And it was through these years that he’s also learned that there are right and wrong choices, and Castiel has never been the one to make the right ones. Not when it mattered.

Dean leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and inclines his head. He looks at Castiel with hooded eyes. “Do you want me to stay for the night?”

Castiel stares at Dean. Dean waits calmly, and Castiel’s heart slams against his chest as what Dean said registers, and he so badly wants to say _yes yes yes._ He doesn’t. Dean waits for Castiel to say something, and Castiel finds nothing to say. He can only meet Dean’s eyes, and hold them there as he thinks of nothing else. His mind isn’t occupied by the rest of the world, by the need to repent, by the case he should be working on.

This… whatever it is that they have together has always been comfortable. No, comfortable isn’t the word. They’re used to this, this dance of back and forth, what could be but never will be, and neither have tried to change it from what it is... until now.

Castiel wonders what it’d be like to tell Dean that he loves him.

Castiel’s voice is calm when he speaks. “No, it’s alright. Thank you, Dean.” He doesn’t look at him in the eyes. Just in case it shows. Just in case.

Dean straightens, like he isn’t sure what to do with the response, but soon his easy grin is thrown back on his face. “Alright,” he says. “Just know I’m around if you need me.”

Castiel nods wordlessly, and they bid each other a good night before Dean retires to his own room. The click of Castiel’s door is deafening.

Castiel shuffles into his bed, the weight of the blanket over him reassuring. He buries himself further into the mattress.

He shuts his eyes. The bed is too big by himself, but he can stay, and that’s—

That’s all he needs.

* * *

Castiel jolts awake.

He blinks up at the ceiling to concentrate on what might have woken him, but he doesn’t see or hear anything in the otherwise silent bunker. It’s still dark.

He closes his eyes again. From somewhere within the depth of this place, there comes a ticking sound not unlike a clock. He counts as the gears turn.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He can’t fall back asleep.

He carefully removes the blanket that he’s managed to wrap around himself, caging him into the bed. His toes curl up against the cold floor, and he almost dives right back into his warm bed. His heart won’t calm down. Whatever it is that woke him up, he wants to know.

It’s quiet. He feels like the only person in the universe; nothing but his thoughts entertain him as he walks in the hallway. He reaches the kitchen, and the light he flicks on blinds him temporarily, but soon he’s staring into the warm and familiar kitchen.

Water is rejuvenating on his parched throat, and it’s cool against his skin as he rinses the glass. He feels a little less suffocated. Despite being underground, it’s a bit too warm.

He flicks the light back off. He can barely make anything out, so he uses the wall as support to lead him back to his room, back to the warmth of his sleep. His feet tap against the cold floor, the sound almost violent in the otherwise oppressive silence.

The hallway goes on for forever in the dark. He comes across a door, but it’s not his room. He squeezes the doorknob and tries the door, but it’s firmly locked. He continues onward. Has this place always been so endless?

There is nothing else in the world except for the way his fingers slide along the walls. His eyes don’t adjust to the dark, so it’s hard to make anything out. He comes across a door, but it’s not his room.

He rubs his right arm. It hurts again, almost like someone is squeezing at a wound. He doesn’t know when it started hurting. He can’t remember the last time it hurt. This isn’t the first time he’s felt this pain.

He stops. He looks behind him. The door is still there, but it’s not his room. Hasn’t he walked more than a few steps since?

The door is slightly ajar.

He’s sure it was locked.

He looks forward, met only by the dark. He looks back at the door. He takes a step towards it.

It feels familiar. It can’t be his room. It’s where he belongs. He takes a step towards the door.

The ends of his fingers tingle. His heart beats against his ears, but it’s not all he hears. He settles his hand against the door. He pushes. The door creaks open.

He stares into an empty room.

He looks back to the dark hallway behind him.

What is he doing here?

“Cas?”

Castiel blinks. He turns around to find Dean standing at the door, his voice still raspy from sleep. Dean yawns.

Castiel frowns down at the floor. “Dean.”

“What are you doing?”

“I went to grab a drink. I thought…” He looks around the room. Empty. “What am I doing here?”

Dean pauses, huffs out a laugh. It’s hard to make out his facial expression in the dark. “How the hell did you get lost in a one-way hallway?”

He doesn’t know. He didn’t know he was lost until now.

Dean holds his hand out as a silent invitation, and the faint panic subsides. His warmth runs through Castiel’s arm as Dean squeezes his hand.

“C’mon,” Dean says gently with a tug, and pulls him back out into the hallway. “Go back to sleep.”

Castiel nods and follows his way back to his room, the smell trailing after him like an afterthought. He slips in under his blankets, and Castiel avoids putting weight on his right arm as he lays back down, back into his dreams.

* * *

A headache bids him a good morning. Castiel buries his face further into the pillow with a groan, but he does find a cup of coffee by his nightstand. It’s strong and familiar, as always.

He sips at it gratefully, and makes his way to the kitchen where the smell of breakfast waits for him. Dean is there, something sizzling on the stove in front of him as he greets him with a smile.

“Morning, Cas,” he sing-songs. He’s in a good mood.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel puts the cup down. “Where’s Sam?”

“On a run, that freak.” Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s always going on about having to stay healthy and shit. Any plans for you today, Cas?”

Castiel rubs his fingers together. “I thought I’d go back to Bobby’s and try to make progress on the case.”

“Yeah, about that.” Dean scratches his cheek. “Apparently there’s been some sort of situation.”

“What situation?”

Dean shrugs. “The not natural kind. He’s trying to figure it out, but so far, nothing.”

“Shouldn’t we go help him?”

“That’s what I said!” Dean says, clearly still upset about the conversation himself. “But apparently Bobby figured more people means more clutter.” Dean stabs the frying pan with his flipper with more force than necessary. “Anyway, if that was your plan for the day, wanna hang back with me instead? What do you say we hit the beer-and-bacon a mile from here, huh?”

“There are more pressing issues at hand, Dean.”

“It’s not like we can do anything about it. Why waste our time sitting here worrying over it?”

“That’s not like you,” Castiel says.

“Is it?” Dean smiles tightly. “I’ll have to remember for next time.”

“I just meant—”

Dean waves him off. “So, beer-and-bacon. You in or what?”

Castiel wants to, of course. He’d give everything and more to just sit down and relax, Dean by his side while they indulge in simple pleasures. There’s something very human about taking a moment to pause for no practical purpose other than to enjoy the moment. In a sense, it isn’t simple at all.

“Cas,” Dean cuts into this thoughts. “C’mon, man. What’s stopping you?”

Guilt, maybe. Or maybe, that this isn’t something he deserves to have. It’s something he won’t be able to get enough of once he tastes what it’s like to have it for even a fraction of a second. He’d be left with a craving that will never be satisfied until he can't keep it contained anymore and it'll spill out for the world to see.

“There must be a way to help Bobby from where we are,” Castiel replies instead. “Do you have any more information on his situation?”

Dean’s face falls. He sighs quietly, and turns off the stove to face him fully. “Cas, I just want to spend some time with you.”

Castiel stills.

“Is that so much to ask for?” Dean continues. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and rocks forward slightly. “I thought that’s what you’d want, too.”

Of course he… But they still need to focus on the situation. He still needs to focus on the case.

What he _wants_ is a luxury.

Dean eyes him one more time, and sighs with an eyeroll. “Let me check with him,” Dean mumbles, and calls Bobby. Castiel doesn’t move from his spot.

They eventually find something online to help Bobby. Bobby isn’t in a good mood by the time everything is over. One of his kitchen walls is gone, but Castiel knows better than to ask for an explanation. Dean and Sam offer to take Bobby’s books into the bunker, and suddenly they’re left with piles and piles of lore books, and plenty of rooms for them.

Organizing the books, on the other hand, is hectic. Dean wants to shove them into wherever they’ll fit, but Sam insists on taking this opportunity to sort them. Thus beings their meticulous task of going through Bobby’s entire book collection.

“Alphabetically,” Sam emphasizes. Dean rolls his eyes, but humours his brother.

Dean glances at Castiel, and Castiel tenses for a second as he recalls their previous conversation. Dean doesn’t mention it, instead nudging him to show him a book that belongs in more than one category and consulting him about it. Dean ends up tossing the book back into the pile for someone else to deal with later. He catches Castiel’s raised eyebrow, and grins like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever told. The air between them eases a little bit, and it’s almost like they’re back to themselves. 

Not mentioning what happened before leaves a bitter taste in Castiel’s mouth, but he’s sure he’ll be fine with it in due time. Just like Dean seems to be.

Castiel also has a hard time ignoring the nagging feeling of urgency every time he thinks back to the case he should be working on. He knows it should be his priority, but he finds himself reaching for another book to sort when he thinks about it instead. At least sorting the books has its own set of rules. Instructions for him to follow.

At the same time, he itches to do something related to the case. Anything to put himself back into motion and find something to cling onto, so he can focus on what he should be doing instead of mindlessly flipping through lore upon lore upon lore.

He understands why repetition of routine can drive human beings to their mental limits.

Dean notices. He must notice, because Dean sends Sam out of the room to do something for him, and as soon as he’s out of sight, Dean slings an arm behind Castiel’s chair. The gesture is meant to be comforting, but Castiel only feels trapped.

“Dude, you need to relax,” Dean says. He brushes his finger over Castiel’s shoulder, and the slight touch is enough to send a jolt down his spine. “I know that downtime can feel weird, but it’s something you’re gonna have to get used to.”

“I’m just…” He’s high-strung but has no way to deflate, almost vibrating with energy meant to be spent.

“What is it?” Dean asks with low voice. He sees Castiel’s hesitation, and leans in closer. “What?”

Castiel lets out a sigh, and it comes out shaky and brittle. “I don’t know.”

Dean frowns, puzzled.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Castiel says. “There’s so much that I don’t… With this case, with—everything, it’s been mistakes after mistakes, and right now, all I know is that I—”

Castiel resists clenching his fists. He’s just so _frustrated_. The case is a stalemate, and it’s leading him nowhere. He can’t shake off the feeling of restlessness that warns him that he shouldn’t be here. That he should be doing—something. Anything. He doesn’t know _what_ that something is, only that it pokes at him insistently.

Castiel stands up. “I’m going to work on the case.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Dean stands up with him, looking at him warily. “Cas, alright, geez. Look, you want to work on that case of yours that badly, I’ll help you out.”

“You will?”

“Sure. I’d rather be working on a case than doing Sam’s nerdy crap, anyway. C’mon, walk me through it.”

Castiel finds the documents just as he left them, and shows Dean all of the photographs. Dean looks through with a concentrated frown, pausing at every photo to study them before he moves onto the next one. Castiel studies them again, looking for details he might’ve missed the first time. Only the victims’ blank eyes stare back at him, open and honest.

Dean holds one of the photos in his hand. He plays with a corner of it, lost in thought as he stares at the face of the victim. “Hey, Cas?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you take on this case?” Dean asks, not taking his eyes off the photo. “You could be doing literally anything else right now.”

Castiel stares at Dean, his tongue suddenly too numb to form words. His lips are dry. The room feels cold. “It’s what you would’ve done,” he answers.

“Why are you so sure this is a case at all?”

“I told you, Dean,” Castiel says. “Because I found—”

Castiel pauses.

Dean looks up, a raised eyebrow in place of an unspoken question.

“I found,” Castiel tries again, but he can’t grasp at something that doesn’t quite click into place. A chill goes up his spine, and goosebumps form along his arms. His right arm hurts faintly. He frowns down at the victim’s photo. How did he find this case? The man in the photograph looks familiar.

“Cas,” Dean says. “How about Sam and I take care of this one?”

Castiel blinks, snapping back to attention. “What?”

Dean’s still holding onto the photo. Castiel wants to snatch it out of his hands. “This case, it’s getting to you bad.”

Castiel swallows down the words. “I want to help you in some way. I thought taking on this case would be what you’d have wanted.”

“Is that what _you_ want? To be useful to me?”

Castiel stares at Dean, who neutrally stares back at him. He doesn’t know how to reply when put that way. Dean is so calm and collected, and Castiel is almost shivering. Something about this grates him, and it overwhelms him, so much that he can’t think. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and the smell lurks in.

At the lack of an answer, Dean looks down with a sigh, and looks back up with firm eyes. Dean reaches out, and squeezes Castiel’s hands. “Listen, Cas,” he says. “You’d be the most useful for me if you’re happy. Okay?”

“Dean—”

“Cas, we need you.” The familiar words strike him with each heartbeat. Dean’s grip on Castiel’s sleeve tightens. His hands are not covered in blood. “I need you.”

* * *

Castiel jolts awake.

A headache bids him a good morning. Castiel buries his face further into the pillow with a groan, but he does find a cup of coffee by his nightstand. It’s strong and familiar, as always.

He sips at it gratefully, and makes his way to the kitchen where the smell of breakfast waits for him. Dean is there, something sizzling on the stove in front of him as he greets him with a smile.

“Morning, Cas,” he sing-songs. He’s in a good mood.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel puts the cup down. “Where’s Sam?”

“On a run, that freak.” Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s always going on about having to stay healthy and shit. So hey,” Dean says, flipping a pancake. “Sam and I looked into your case while you were in dreamland.”

Castiel halts with his cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. “You did?”

“Yep,” Dean says cheerfully. “Turns out it’s not our thing.”

Sam walks into the kitchen then, holding a bottle of water. “Oh, hey, Cas.”

Castiel is sitting down, but he’s suddenly falling, falling, falling into an endless hole. He looks from Dean and Sam. They both stare down at him in his chair.

“How is that possible?” he finally asks. “You’ve seen the photos. That couldn’t have been a human’s doing.”

“Humans,” Sam corrects.

“It was just a bunch of psychos doing their things,” Dean explains. “You’ll be surprised at what humans are capable of.”

“But the victims’ wounds, they were…” Castiel tries to remember what they looked like, what their names were, what he thought might’ve caused it. He stands up, ignoring Dean’s calls after him, and walks to the war room where he left the photos.

They’re not on the table. They’re not anywhere his eyes land on. Dean has followed after him, his pancakes forgotten.

“Dean, where are the photos?”

“Why?”

Castiel looks at Dean, incredulous that Dean would even care about the reason, that he needs a reason at all. “I want to look at them again.”

“Cas, I already told you. It was humans,” Dean says, blocking Castiel from moving any further. “The perps were caught by the locals. It was all over the news this morning. It’s none of our business now.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “I just want to make sure.”

“Why, ‘cause you don’t trust me?”

Castiel opens his mouth to refute, but his words are stuck in his throat when he sees the hard set of Dean’s mouth. Something about this is familiar. There’s a faint taste of blood at the back of his throat.

Sam coughs behind them. “Cas, I know you’re worried,” he says gently, “but Dean and I checked multiple times to make sure. It really wasn’t our thing. There’s no need for us to waste our time on it anymore.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says pointedly. “You can do whatever you want now.”

“But I was… I was so sure,” Castiel says faintly. He frowns down at his hands. It’s only been a few days, but it feels like it’s been forever. He can’t remember any details about the case, no matter how hard he tries. “It couldn’t have been a mistake.”

“Cas, this is a _good_ thing,” Dean says. “You hear me? We can lay low for a few days, catch up on the rest we’ve missed out on, y’know?”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he expected out of this case, but it’s not this anticlimactic ending where he feels even more lost than when he began.

He doesn’t remember how the rest of breakfast goes. He feels Dean and Sam share knowing glances over his head, but he ignores them in favour of trying to piece his thoughts back together. There must be something they missed, or something he missed, but all he knows is that… this can’t be the work of humans. He wants to make _sure_. With his own eyes, with his own ears.

When they finish breakfast, Castiel slips into the library. They never throw out a case file, so it must be here somewhere. Castiel scouts the area, and the pungent smell follows him. Dean and Sam’s laughter echoes from somewhere in the bunker, and Castiel wrinkles his nose. He takes a deep breath to focus back on the task at hand.

There.

Poking out from between the many books in the shelves is a document file. Its edges are crinkled, almost as if someone hastily shoved it in there in fear of it being found. Castiel checks behind him to make sure Dean or Sam hasn’t come into the room, and opens it with a shaky breath.

Here are the photos.

He remembers them.

He can’t understand how he forgot. He shuffles through the photos, one by one, victim by victim, and all of their eyes that stare at him silently. His right arm hurts so _much,_ like a festering wound burning up. He pauses at one of the photos to study a man, and it’s at the edges of his memories, where has he seen him, why does he know him—

There’s a clattering sound that inches closer, and Castiel looks behind him. He doesn’t have much time. He needs to remember. The sound gets closer. He needs to hurry. The smell overwhelms, so much that he gags—

“Cas.”

Castiel blinks.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Dean grimly stands beside him. “You alright?”

“I,” Castiel tries faintly, but nothing forms. He drags a hand over his mouth. His hands are trembling, so he clenches them into fists to steady them. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“I know,” Dean says slowly, and slides the document file out of his grasp. “Sam and I are heading out for a case.” Dean pauses. “Do you wanna join us?”

Dean clutches the document file in front of him, and Castiel can’t take his eyes off of it. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

The case is a standard salt-and-burn, but Castiel’s breakthrough during their research becomes crucial to finding the remains. They stare down at the burning corpse in the pit they’ve created, and Dean thumps him on his back.

“Great job.” Dean smiles, his face aglow. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Castiel smiles back weakly. He should be happy. He _is_ happy.

He isn’t happy.

“Cas?” Dean calls.

He doesn’t want his resourcefulness to be the only reason they want him. He wants to be enough because… because…

“Cas.”

It’s not something he deserves. He knows. It may not be something he’ll ever receive. He knows that, too. The simple human things that aren’t simple at all, not to him, not to them. Dean had wanted to save him, but what good would he be without his grace, with what he is now?

Naomi should’ve left him in purgatory.

Dean waves his hand in front of his face. “Cas!”

Didn’t he already know that, hadn’t he already resigned himself to it? To not want more than what he was given, not more than what he deserves. They need him. Dean needs him.

“Cas, are you happy?” Dean asks. “Is this what you wished for?”

Castiel sinks into the green, green pools of Dean’s eyes. He cares about Dean and Sam. He cares about Dean. He cares so fucking much that it’s burned him from inside out, and he’s still willing. Always willing. Whatever they ask of him, he’ll do. He’ll risk his life for them, but Heaven knows, he knows, the boundaries of his own selfishness.

“No.”

* * *

Castiel jolts awake.

He heaves a deep breath, drenched in sweat. There’s faint familiar pain on his right arm—a ghost of what was once there. His entire body is otherwise numb from the lack of movement, and his brain rolls in place like he’s been turned upside down for too long. He twitches a finger, and taps it against the bed experimentally. He flexes his hand. He’s here.

He listens to the quietness of the bunker and focuses on his heart as it calms back down into a steady rhythm. He takes another deep breath with his back arching and slumps back onto the bed with a sigh.

A headache bids him a good morning. Castiel buries his face further into the pillow with a groan, but he does find a cup of coffee by his nightstand. It’s strong and familiar, as always.

He sips at it gratefully, and makes his way to the kitchen where the smell of breakfast waits for him. Dean is there, something sizzling on the stove in front of him as he greets him with a smile.

“Morning, Cas,” he sing-songs. He’s in a good mood.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel puts the cup down. “Where’s Sam?”

“On a run, that freak.” Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s always going on about having to stay healthy and shit.”

Dean puts down a hefty plate of breakfast, ranging from bacon to pancakes to eggs and toast. Castiel has never seen so much food in one sitting, but he’s not complaining, especially when Dean looks so happy as Castiel samples every part of the plate.

“Do I fix up a good breakfast, or what?” Dean grins, his lips glistening with syrup. Castiel wants to lean in and kiss it away, and dismisses the thought.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says. It’s with regret that he stands up and away from Dean’s warmth. “I should really get back to my case now.”

“Um.” Dean catches Castiel’s wrist in his hands, and Castiel pauses. Dean pulls him back onto the chair, and Castiel follows.

“About that,” Dean says carefully, almost like he’s broaching a sensitive topic. “Sam and I’ve been sort of keeping tabs on it. Nothing too big. Just making sure nobody else is turning up dead.”

“Oh.” Castiel nods slowly. “That was thoughtful of you. I should’ve been doing that.”

“You’re new at this hunting thing.”

Castiel shuffles with guilt. “Still.”

Dean waves him aside. “You’re only human, Cas. And,” Dean continues, “I think it might be best if you let me and Sam handle this one.”

Castiel frowns slightly, confused. “Dean, this case is my responsibility.”

Dean’s smile slips, and along with it, Castiel’s good mood. The room feels constricting all of a sudden.

“Cas, I didn’t want to mention this, but I…” Dean sighs. “I’m looking out for you, okay? I just don’t think you’re suited for this.”

“Are you saying I’m not capable?”

“I’m saying you’ll be happier this way,” Dean corrects gently. “All of us. That’s what you want, right?”

The world teeters on an edge, and it tilts, and tilts, and spins Castiel around until he can’t think anymore. Castiel needs this case to hang onto.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Castiel hears himself ask.

Dean pats his shoulders reassuringly, and beams at him. “Whatever you want, Cas. Anything to make you happy.”

Castiel doesn’t understand.

Dean’s hand squeezes his shoulder tighter. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Castiel replies quietly.

He just needs to find a way to make himself useful again.

It’s why Castiel finds himself in the library a few minute later, mindlessly flipping through the books for a way to repurpose himself when he hears footsteps against the marble floor. The owner of it reveals himself to be Dean, who slowly rounds the corner with a small inquisitive frown settled between his brows. He’s wearing clothes Castiel's never seen him in before. He gingerly touches the doorframe, which Castiel finds a bit odd. Dean carefully maneuvers across the war room and into the library, his eyes roaming the area like it’s about to fall apart on him at any moment.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean physically jumps on the spot, his eyes immediately spotting him.

Something is wrong.

Castiel’s not sure he likes the look that crosses Dean’s face while he traces Castiel from head to toe, finally meeting his eyes. He’s pale.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

Dean’s lips quiver. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Hey, Cas.”

It’s only been few minutes since Castiel saw him. “Are you alright?”

Dean lets out a huff in disbelief. “I should be the one asking you that.” He looks around the room, inviting Castiel to do the same. “So this is what you dream about? Being in the bunker…” Dean drops his gaze to the desk where books are scattered all over. “Reading?”

Castiel looks down at the page he was reading, and rubs his eyes. He knew exactly what it was talking about just now, but now the moment he tries to focus on the words, they jump around the pages. “I’m dreaming.”

“Yeah, you’re dreaming. Gotta say, I always knew you were a nerd, but this…” Dean lets out a laugh, but it sounds odd. Strangled. “This definitely takes the cake.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“Well, I am now.” Dean shakes his head, and grabs Castiel’s arm. “Anyway, let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

“Dean?”

Dean turns around. “Yeah?”

“Why are you here?”

Dean blinks. “What do you mean, why am I here? I’m here to get your ass out.”

“Out of my dream.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Dean emphasizes, like he isn’t sure where Castiel is confused.

And suddenly, staring at Dean’s earnest eyes, Castiel realizes. Or maybe, he’s known all along, and he’s just tired of the pretense. It’s always been about more than the case.

“Dean, the case is an excuse,” Castiel blurts, and retracts his arm. He doesn’t mean to be honest. But they’re in his dream. “I wanted to prove to you that I’m still useful, even if I’m…” Maybe this is the only place where he can be as honest as the truth. “I just needed a reason to stay.”

Dean listens intently with his mouth slightly open. He shuts it with a vigorous shake of his head. “That’s not—Cas, we’ll talk about this. Alright? We will. For now, we gotta go.” Dean grabs him by the shoulders. His hands are warm and firm. “Cas, you’re

not awake yet, are you?”

Castiel jolts awake.

He slowly lifts his head off the table. He blinks sleep out of his eyes, and dumbly stare at the spectacle before him.

A table is snapped in half like something heavy’s been thrown over it, and the remnants of a lamp are scattered on the floor. One of the chairs has been flung across the room and shattered into pieces, and there are scattered books everywhere. Dean is staring down at him with pieces of furniture in his arms.

Castiel stumbles out of his seat, and staggers. The world overturns for a moment, and he grabs onto the chair for support. He gags, but nothing comes out.

Dean gives his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Welcome back.”

Castiel groans. “What happened?”

“We got ambushed.”

Castiel looks around the room again as if that’ll return everything back to the way it was. He’s developed an extremely painful headache since— “What ambushed us?”

Dean shrugs. “Something that really didn’t like this place.”

“Where is it now?”

“Ran before I could finish it off. You okay?”

Castiel realizes he’s swaying a little on his feet and shakes his head. The pain is lessening by the seconds, but it’s still constantly present. “Yes. Is Sam safe?”

“Sam?” Dean echoes. “I told you he won’t be home for another few days ‘cause he’s keeping a tab on that case, remember?”

There’s a faint taste of blood. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“But you told me that the case wasn’t our thing.”

“When did I say that? You sure you’re okay?”

He’s not sure. “I’m fine.”

“Dude must’ve joggled your brain pretty good.” Dean taps the back of his head.

Castiel was so sure, but maybe Dean’s right. “Maybe.”

“Yeah. Hey, Cas?” There are splinters of the bunker in Dean’s arms. “What’d you dream about, anyway?”

Castiel tries to remember. There’s a faint taste of blood, there’s the faintly pungent smell, there’s the pain in his right arm. “I don’t know.”

Dean gives a small smile in reply, and continues to clean up the room to restore it back to the way it was before.

Castiel gathers up the case files that have been scattered all across the floor. He picks up a photo, and frowns in confusion. It’s definitely a photo, but there’s no one in it—only a white background. He flips it, but there’s nothing on the other side either. Strange. He hasn’t seen this photo before, and he’s been working on this case for as long as he can remember.

“Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off the photo. It’s not possible that the subject of the photo has disappeared—but that’s exactly what seemed to have happened. This man, he was—

Dean snatches the photo away, and Castiel startles at his ferocity. “I told you to butt out of this case.”

“I just wanted—”

“To help, yeah. I know. Drop the bullshit act,” Dean snaps, and Castiel blinks in surprise. “That’s the farthest thing you want.”

Castiel’s stomach lurches. “What?”

“It’s an excuse,” Dean continues, and Castiel stiffens. “You just needed a reason to stay. With me.”

“Dean—”

“Stay.” Dean opens his arms, silently gesturing at Castiel to come forward. Castiel’s body prickles. “Stay here.”

Castiel wants to say yes. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, to want such a thing. Of course he wants to stay.

He eyes the photo beside Dean, the empty frame with no one inside.

“Dean, give me the photo.”

Dean glances down at it, and his eyebrows settle into a frown. “No.”

“Dean—”

Dean sighs, and stalks towards him. Realizing what he’s trying to do, Castiel rips away from the touch, away from Dean’s embrace. The warmth leaves him as quickly as it arrived. “Dean, _no_ ,” Castiel growls. “I just want to go home.”

Dean’s face darkens. He grits his teeth. “I thought this _was_ your home.”

Not like this. Not like this.

“You’ve changed,” Dean says icily. Castiel’s heart sinks at the tone of his voice. Dean’s eyes are hard and ferocious. “This case—it changed you.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean replies a little louder.

“I’m still me. I still—”

“You used to be—you didn’t used to be like this, Cas. And now, ever since you found out that stupid fucking case wasn’t even our _thing_ , all you do is be paranoid about every _single_ fucking piece of shit that comes up in our lives. Why, ‘cause you didn’t trust me? ‘Cause you didn’t trust _me,”_ Dean says. “Yeah. No, that’s not gonna cut it. Not this time. So you can take your little apology and you can cram it up your ass.”

He’s heard this before. “Dean, I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, the words tumbling out on their own before he can even think.

“Yeah. You always do,” Dean answers automatically, as if he expected Castiel’s answer. He’s heard those words before.

They’ve never fought like this. They’ve always fought like this. That photo. Who was it? “Did we have this conversation before?”

Dean looks up sharply. He glares. “Why?”

A sharp pain pierces his head, and Castiel topples. If he doesn’t focus, the pain isn’t there. As soon as he notices it, it’s impossible to ignore. “This case wasn’t our thing.”

“What?”

“You just said that this case wasn’t our thing.” Castiel grips his temples with his eyes shut. There’s a sharp pain that dulls almost immediately.

“I never _said_ that. Cas, what the fuck?”

His head is splitting from the pain. “This is wrong.”

“What?”

“Something’s _wrong_.” He can’t grasp at the edges of his mind, and it overwhelms but refuses to tip, refuses to let him reason with Dean, that photo, that man, that pain in his arm. It shouldn’t be something he needs to say outright, because he _knows_ that Dean knows, he knows this, because, because.

“We’ve done this before,” Castiel gasps. “There was a time when I—when you—it didn’t go like this! I—”

* * *

There is bright yellow graffiti on the side of Bobby’s house, an attempt to scrub it away evident.

Castiel frowns upon seeing it, and looks up to soak up the sight of the blue morning sky. He looks around the salvage yard. He needs to work on his case, but it’s nice out here. He wants to go back home. His case with the hybrid. The hybrid.

Sam steps out from the door. “Oh, hey,” Sam says, a confused frown on his brows. “What are you doing out here? Come in.”

Castiel stares at Sam, so much taller than how he remembers him. He towers over him easily. He’s human now. He can only see as far as his eyes allow him. “It’s a nice day outside,” he offers.

Sam smiles. “Don’t you have that case of yours to work on?”

“I do,” Castiel replies. The case that he thought was the work of a hybrid. He doesn’t know how to put it all together. He can’t remember a single detail about it. The wound on his arm hurts. “But I want to stay out here a bit longer.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t push him. “Okay,” he shrugs. “Just make sure to come back inside soon, alright?”

Castiel mulls over it. Sam doesn’t wait for a reply, and turns to go back inside.

“Wait,” Castiel calls. Sam spins in place. “Have you seen the graffiti on the side of Bobby’s house?”

“What?” Sam looks over to the wall. There’s nothing there. Castiel is sure it was there. “No. What graffiti?”

“It was yellow,” Castiel supplies. Sam shakes his head.

“What did it say?” Sam asks.

Castiel opens his mouth to answer that it was gone by the time he found it. Maybe it was a protection sigil of some sort. It’s how he always answers. He stops himself.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“I never told you the graffiti was words.”

He sees the moment where Sam pauses. Sam slowly looks over at him.

Sam smiles apologetically, and shrugs.

* * *

Castiel looks down at the paintbrush he holds, dripping yellow paint from its tip. He looks up to find bright yellow graffiti freshly painted on the side of Bobby Singer’s house. It’s even more stark against the blue morning sky, so bright that it’s almost unreadable. So bright is the morning sun that he’s blinded by it all.

* * *

The lamp shatters on the floor. Dean stands over him, and Castiel glares up.

“How many times, Castiel?” he asks quietly. “How many times before you’re finally happy?”

There are only a few creatures that can conjure up such a huge world based on his wishes. He thought the case had involved a hybrid. “How many times have you rebuilt this world?” Castiel asks.

Dean clenches his jaw. “Does it matter? I’ve given you everything you asked for, every single time. Why do you obsess over things that mean so _little_ to you?”

* * *

“Cool coat,” the waitress tells him.

“Actually—” Castiel starts to reply. They’ve had this conversation before. His mouth moves without his will, and his tongue shapes the words without his strength. They remember better than he does. “—it’s quite warm.”

He looks up to meet the waitress’s green eyes. Two hollow burnt holes stare back at him.

Castiel jerks out of his seat. His chair clatters.

“This is why I died, Castiel?” she asks. “What you sacrificed my life for? So you can enjoy paradise in your head?”

She walks towards him and he steps back, unable to look away. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

A faint outline of a mangled halo surrounds her. He remembers her. “You don’t get to have this,” she spits. Everything around them stops. He remembers her. “You will repent for your sins.”

He remembers her.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s Jane,” she replies. “My name was Jane. You took that from me.”

“I know.” His legs shake as he gets back up on his feet. “I know. I’m truly sorry. I—”

Dean nudges his shoulder, and Castiel looks away. He blinks. “Hey,” Dean says quietly. “Ready to go back?”

The sweet, artificial smell of apples entices him. The petals of the zinnias sway in the wind. “Yes.”

Jane bids them goodbye. The sides of her eyes are crinkled with her smile. Her eyes were green.

* * *

“They were all important.” Castiel curls his hands tightly into fists. “All those people, all of my brothers and sisters that I failed. I—” He can’t stop trembling, not out of fear, but out of rage. “How long have I been in here?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“How _long_?”

“Not long enough,” Dean snaps.

* * *

“That’s a cupid,” Castiel remarks.

Dean looks up from his drink. “What?”

“A cupid,” Castiel repeats. There’s something nagging at the back of his mind waiting to be pulled out, but he can’t grab onto it. “She was… important.”

Dean frowns.

Castiel rubs at his right arm, trying to rub away the dull pain that’s developed. The fog that was occupying his brain clears like it was never there. “We were here for her.”

Castiel looks down at his hands, undoubtedly holding the white plastic bag. He doesn’t need to look inside to identify the dark red mass in it. He looks up and sees Naomi in the distance, her eyes filled with tears of regret as she begs for him to reconsider.

“Cas. Hey.” Dean waves a hand in front of his face. “C’mon, let’s go back.”

He feels sick.

* * *

“I’m an angel,” Castiel says. There’s tight pressure against the pain on his right arm.

“Was,” Dean corrects. “You Fell. You chose this.”

“No,” Castiel replies. “I chose none of this.”

“You chose this,” Dean repeats dryly. “Every time, it was you. Everything I did, I did it for you.” When Castiel doesn’t answer, it shrugs. “I’m playing the part, Castiel. You should do the same if you want us to keep up this charade.”

Castiel glances over the empty photo on the desk. A fire, a tin of beans, kind words telling him to try counting sheep. “The homeless man in the photo. He was the one who gave me food.”

It nods.

“What happened to him?”

The djinn’s poison follows his gaze. “Ate him for breakfast.” At Castiel expression, it smiles. “Don’t worry. It was all very peaceful. And that’s what I’m offering you here.” It spreads its arms wide open. “Isn’t that what you wished for? To stay here, with me?”

“You’re nothing like Dean.”

It looks back at him blankly, and sighs. The gesture looks human, but Castiel backs away.

“I’ll remember that for next time, then,” it replies.

Castiel breaks into a run, footsteps after him. No matter how long he runs, the corridor is endless. He takes in little gasps, not enough to soothe his burning human lungs. His heartbeat drums in his ears, and his stomach lurches, but he doesn’t dare stop. He needs to get out. Dean was here for him. He needs to leave.

There is a door at the end of the corridor, and Castiel runs, runs, runs as hard as his legs will carry him. The door leads to the bunker’s main room, and Castiel reaches the metal stairs to the exit with the steps rattling under his feet. He reaches the top, and his head spins and his lungs feel like they’re collapsing, but he doesn’t stop.

“You really think you deserve to live?”

Castiel stills.

“I know everything you know, Castiel.” It walks with ease, confidence in its stride. “I know what you’re guilty of, and I know that you think you deserve to die for it.”

A push is all it takes. Castiel can’t move, frozen in place.

“You honestly think this is your first time to… ‘wake up’?” It shakes its head. “We both know you’re too smart for that, don’t we? And yet, here you are. Still with me.”

“No,” Castiel says faintly.

“Every time, Castiel. I told you. You chose to be here with me. Because it’s easier, isn’t it? In here,” it gestures at the bunker, “with them. With Dean and Sam. But it’s okay,” it says. “We can start over again. You’ll have peace. It’s what you want.”

Castiel looks at its outstretched hand. It has Dean’s eyes, Dean’s voice, but Castiel wonders how he thought it was Dean at all. It copies his face and his mannerism, but nothing can imitate the way Dean warps Castiel’s entire world to focus on him.

Compared to Dean Winchester, the djinn is a bland mockery.

Castiel looks at what it offers him. It did a good job of copying the Winchesters’ home—it feels exactly as Castiel remembers it. Welcoming. Warm. Home. It doesn’t understand the significance of what it had given him.

In the end, it was all Castiel.

Dean was here for him.

“You’re right,” Castiel says quietly.

The poison grins, almost childlike in its absolute glee.

“But it isn’t here,” Castiel continues, his voice strong and steady in the tune of his heart. “And it isn’t with you.”

Its smile crumbles. Everything fades away, except for the poison in the shape of Dean Winchester. Castiel pushes the door with his shoulder.

“Castiel,” it whispers. It takes a step forward. Castiel pushes again, and the door gives a little. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_ leave me.” It grips its chest. “We can be happy together. You’ll never be happy without me. Not out there—not with them. I can give you anything you ask for. They can’t give you what you want.”

Castiel’s grip tightens on the door. He closes his eyes against it. “Goodbye.”

When he opens his eyes, the poison is gone.

Castiel looks back at the abyss one last time. He turns the unlocked handle, and pushes the door. It opens with a creak.

Castiel goes home.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel wakes up.

He hears a group of whispering voices to his right, far away enough that he can’t make out any words, but close enough that he recognizes some of the voices.

His chest rises and falls. He tries to form a word, but finds his mouth too dry. He tries to swallow, only to cough violently from his throat closing up.

It’s enough. There are voices everywhere. Dean and Sam.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers. His voice cracks. There’s a needle in his arm and a familiar pain above it.

“Cas—” A strong hand grasps his shoulder. Castiel sinks further into the soft warm sheets, the pungent smell of the djinn’s hideout far behind him. “Hey. Hey.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats.

The grip on his shoulder tightens reassuringly. Castiel falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next time Castiel wakes up, it’s quieter. He groggily opens his eyes, and lets out a deep breath.

Dean hovers over him in the periphery.

“Cas?” Dean whispers.

“Hello, Dean.”

The worried lines on Dean’s forehead smoothens out. “Hey, Cas. Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” Castiel murmurs. He wants to get up, but finds that he can’t move. His body is a limp mass that weighs him down. He’s cold. He’s hot. He’s all of those things. “Am I dying?”

A cool damp towel wipes down his face. “No,” Dean says softly. “But you do have a fever.”

“A fever,” Castiel repeats. Such a human thing.

“Go back to sleep,” Dean gently commands. Castiel shakes his head. “Why not?”

“What if—I don’t…” Castiel swallows. “Don’t leave,” he says meekly.

It’s enough. “I’ll be here,” Dean hushes.

Castiel nods. With the promise in mind, he passes back out.

* * *

Castiel notices the large gaping hole in the wall the next time he wakes up. Sam follows his curious gaze.

“Dean did that,” Sam offers as an explanation. At Castiel’s questioning eyebrow, Sam rubs the back of his neck. “We… didn’t know how contagious the djinn’s drug was, but Dean kept arguing we should dive into your head, and, well… You know.”

The djinn poison was contagious. Castiel had thought the case involved a hybrid.

He takes quiet notice of the bandage around his right upper arm. Underneath it is the wound he got from one of the angels that were sent out to hunt him down. Just after the Fall. Just after Hael.

Castiel closes his eyes just for a moment to recollect himself.

“And this?” Castiel looks at the IV bag connected to him through a needle puncturing his arm.

“You _did_ lose a lot of blood before we got to you.”

“The people who were with me, were they…?”

“They’re all fine. The djinn, uh… It really liked your blood for some reason.” Sam hands over a bowl of porridge on a tray.

Castiel relaxes. It was by pure chance that Castiel and the people sheltering him were attacked by the djinn, but he still feels responsible for it somehow. He’s only thankful that he didn’t repay their kindness with death. “I’m glad they’re alright.”

Sam nods curtly, his lips pressed together. “How about you?”

“Hm?”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Horrible.” Castiel shakily pokes at the top of the porridge with his spoon. The bowl warms his hand. He blows the steam off the porridge, and takes a small bite. It’s bland, and barely has any other purpose than to be a mush in his mouth. He spills droplets as he spoons in more bites, and Sam huffs a laugh at his distaste.

“Dean says you’ll get real food once you’re back from the verge of death.”

Castiel looks at the bowl and the tray, so thoughtfully arranged. “Where is Dean?”

Sam stills. “He’s… around. Keeping himself busy.”

“Doing what?”

Sam runs his fingers through his hair. He sends a wary glance behind him, almost like he’s expecting Dean to walk into the room at any moment.

“Cas, do you know who Muriel is?”

He remembers Dean’s frantic phone call when Castiel was still with Hael, when Castiel called him to let him know that Metatron… The way his stomach tightens has nothing to do with the food or how weak his body is. It’s the excuse he uses to lean back against the bedframe.

“She healed me from the Hell trials’ side effects,” Sam says. Castiel had noticed that the colour on his cheeks are back, and the horrible-looking bags under his eyes are gone. Also noted is the way he doesn’t cough up blood. It’s relieving to see Sam back in good health. “Apparently there’s some sort of angelic war going on, and she didn’t want anything to do with it. She’s staying here in exchange for helping me. Just until everything is over.”

“I see.”

Sam studies him warily. “Is that okay with you?”

Castiel blinks. “It’s your home.”

“But—”

“Sam.”

Castiel forgets to breathe.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Dean glances at Castiel with a tight smile. Castiel’s lungs freeze completely. “Now?” he adds through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Um.” Sam glances between them. So Castiel isn’t mistaken about the cutting edge in Dean’s voice. “Sure.”

Sam takes his tray and gets up, but just before they’re out the door, Dean looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel gulps. _Tell him, tell him_. “Hello, Dean.”

“Get some rest, alright?”

Castiel nods mutely, and Dean seems strangely satisfied by the sight. Dean also takes the tray and the empty bowl off Sam’s hands, and gently shuts the door behind them.

Castiel sinks into the bed, his heart still beating out of his chest. He can hear their frantic whispers even though he tries to not overhear. The Winchesters have always been bad at keeping their voices down when they’re emotional.

“…told you not to tell him!” Dean says. Castiel’s ears perk up. “Guy’s… enough on his plate…”

“…going to… eventually, Dean.”

“Doesn’t mean… right _now_. He’s been human for… He’s gone through… normal person insane.”

“He deserves to know... Besides, he’s Cas.”

Dean mumbles something in reply, and then they’re too far for him to hear.

Castiel stares at the door. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but eventually, he curls back into his bed and sleeps.

* * *

Sam installs a TV in his room in case he gets bored lying around in bed all day. Sam calls it his room like it’s no big deal, like they’ve always had a place ready for him. Castiel tries to not read too much into it.

Dean and Sam are always doing something. Sam leaves in between conversations to go do something for someone, and he doesn’t see Dean at all during the next few days. Kevin drops by from time to time to ‘help out’, but now he lives with his mother—who they found in one of Crowley’s prisons—instead of in the bunker.

“Why?” Castiel asks. “You’re still the prophet. Aren’t you exposed to danger?”

“Kinda,” Kevin replies. “But Crowley’s got his hands full with Abaddon.”

He stays for a little longer to exchange _Game of Thrones_ theories, but before they can even scratch the surface of Castiel’s thoughts on the next installment, Kevin leaves to help someone out with something, too.

Castiel doesn’t complain. _Dr. Phil_ is on soon, anyway.

* * *

On his way to the washroom, Castiel sees Dean and Sam in the war room, discussing something with a frown. Their voices aren’t loud enough for him to understand anything clearly, but the heavy atmosphere that hangs above them is easy to read. Sam murmurs something with a huff, and Dean shakes his head with a humourless smile. They both stare down at the table, seemingly hopeless.

“Hello, Dean.” Both eyes shoot up to meet him. “Sam.”

Dean, for one, doesn’t seem to know where to exactly look as soon as their eyes meet. While Dean is fumbling, Sam leans against the table, blocking whatever papers they were looking at. “Hey, Cas. What’re you doing up?”

“I wanted a shower. It’s been a few days.”

“Yeah, I could smell your stink from my room,” Dean quips. Castiel sends him an unappreciative glare, Dean clears his throat, and it’s almost back to the way they used to be. “How’re you feeling?”

Castiel shrugs. He eyes Sam’s computer screen, which has a variety of radars pinging every few seconds. They have maps of America scattered across the table. “Do you need help with anything?”

Dean and Sam exchange a glance. Sam conveys something to Dean purely through their stare, and Dean hardens his expression and readjusts his jaw. After a beat of glaring at each other, Dean looks up with half of an eyeroll and a sigh.

“Cas,” Dean says carefully, “you don’t happen to know where any of the gates of Heaven are, do you?”

Castiel looks at Sam’s computer screen again, and back to Dean. He’s lightheaded like he just stepped out of a shower even though he’s nowhere near the washroom, the warm orange lights of the bunker that welcomed him now intrusive and blinding. “No.”

Dean has one of his arms slung over the back of his chair, and the other resting in front of him. He looks healthy. More than healthy—there’s a certain glow about him that Castiel’s never really seen in him before, some sort of determination set between his brows. In front of him is a cup of coffee instead of the usual beer bottles.

Castiel wants to ask him many things. He doesn’t. He doesn’t ask why Sam always brought him the dinner that Dean had cooked, why it was always Sam and Kevin who came to be his occasional companions to talk to, why it was Sam who brought all of Dean’s TV and book recommendations to keep Castiel company while they busied themselves, why he hasn’t seen him since the day he woke up. Maybe Dean’s just too busy cleaning up the mess Castiel’s made. Maybe he’s just too busy cleaning up the mess he’s made, _again_. Maybe he’s just really avoiding him, because he wants nothing to do with him anymore now that he’s useless.

He can’t ask.

Sam clears his throat.

Dean shifts in his chair, breaking their eye contact, and he leans in to fidget with the handle of his mug. “Alright. Was just wondering.”

Castiel nods. He holds up his change of clothes. “I’m going to go shower now.”

“You do that,” Dean replies, not looking up from his cup.

* * *

Castiel finds out that the bunker’s showers are amazing, and it’s one more thing the djinn had gotten wrong.

* * *

Now that he’s strong enough to stand, Castiel goes for long walks. The trees that were once full of green leaves have changed colours while Castiel was captured. He finds a trail not too far from the bunker, surrounded by reds and yellows and greens, and a small stream running throughout. He sometimes comes back to the bunker with his pockets stuffed full of acorns and rocks that he likes. He likes to think that they ground him to this world: tethers that keep him anchored to reality. There’s always something new that he doesn’t already know about.

Dean catches him coming back from one of his walks one day, and Dean’s panicked look subsides.

“Is everything alright?” Castiel asks, and Dean shakes his head.

“Yeah. Just peachy.”

Another day, he wakes up from an afternoon nap to Sam’s distressed yelp, and runs towards it without a second thought.

“What happened?” Castiel asks, and finds that the short sprint has him out of breath.

“Nothing,” Sam replies. He’s by the laundry machine with a confused flush across his face. “I found a bunch of rocks in our laundry, and it almost took out the glass at the front.”

There’s a small dent in the glass, and Sam holds one of the rocks up. Castiel recognizes it instantly. “I’m sorry, Sam. I must’ve forgotten it.”

Sam’s confusion amplifies. “Why did you have rocks in your clothes?”

“They’re from my walks.”

Sam shrugs, and hands it back to him. “Don’t forget them next time.”

Castiel nods and goes back to his afternoon nap.

He doesn’t bring anything back from his walks after that.

* * *

“Are you stuck to the floor or something?”

“No.” Castiel moves aside to give Dean room to enter the kitchen. “Of course not.”

Dean looks at him strangely, like he’s not sure what to do. “Okay. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Castiel replies, and regrets it immediately. He just came back from his walk, and he’s thirsty. He looks back at the kitchen, and his stomach lurches. He turns, and walks away.

“Cas?”

 _Tell him, tell him_. “Yes?”

Dean pins him in place with his eyes. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean’s lips thin. “You sure about that?”

He wants, he wants, he wants so much that he’s incomprehensible with it. What’s stopping him? What’s stopping _him_?

 _Tell him, tell him_. “Yes.”

Dean’s taut shoulders don’t relax, and Castiel feels prickles along his skin as he goes back to hiding in his room.

* * *

There’s a polite knock on the door, which is odd in itself given that Dean and Sam are both out, so Castiel warily gets up to see who it is.

A woman stands in front of his door in a ranger suit. Castiel looks out the corridor to see if Dean or Sam is accompanying her, but nobody else is here. He puts two and two together.

“You’re Muriel,” Castiel says. She’s the one who healed Sam. “Hello.”

Muriel nods. “You’re Castiel, right?” Castiel wishes he could jump out of a window. If only there were windows down here. “ _The_ Castiel.”

He nods. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been coming and going for a little while until… you know.” He doesn’t want to know. “Until everything ends.” He doesn’t want to care. “Can I come in?”

Castiel wants to deny her, but he moves aside. She looks around the room. There are blankets and dirty clothes strewn across the floor, and empty plates and mugs piled up on top of his drawer and desk. The TV, paused on a video about how soap is made, is the only source of dull light in the dark room.

Muriel wrinkles her nose, taking in Castiel’s half-eaten plate of fries. “When was the last time you left the room?”

Castiel finds that he can’t really answer. He doesn’t know if it’s morning or night right now. “What do you want?” he repeats.

Muriel regards him, his unshaven face, the sweatpants he’s worn as both daywear and pajamas, his bare feet. It’s not shame that worms its way into Castiel’s heart, but he self-consciously shoves his hands into his pockets: something he’s seen Dean do many times. He wonders if he looks as stiff. He certainly feels it.

Muriel sits at the foot of his bed, and studies him. “I didn’t believe it when I first saw you, you know,” she says carefully. Everyone has been so very careful with him lately, and Castiel wants to kick her out and shut the door against the rest of the world again. “To think that one of our kind was captured by a djinn of all things, and was… inconvenienced by it.”

“I’m only human now, Muriel.” The words have a certain weight on his tongue. It’s not something he’d said aloud to anyone yet.

She considers this for a moment. “Yes. You are. I was surprised when I found out. You should’ve seen the state you were in when the Winchesters brought you back here.”

Castiel hasn’t heard about that. He keeps his silence to prompt her to continue.

“They tried to have me heal you, but the poison’s grip on you was too strong. At first I thought it was odd that it had such an amplified effect, especially since the djinn was already dead.” She pointedly looks around the room. “But maybe you were the one who was refusing to wake up.”

Castiel looks away. This time, shame burns in his stomach.

“I don’t mean to accuse,” she adds gently, quickly. She clears her throat. “I’ve heard a lot of things about the Winchesters, but I don’t think they’re necessarily bad people.”

“They’re not.”

“Dean was especially stubborn about getting you back.”

The broken desks, almost as if someone toppled over it. The shattered chair, thrown around during a fight.

“Dean wouldn’t be Dean if he wasn’t stubborn.”

She laughs. “I learned. The poison could’ve spread from your mind to his, but he wouldn’t listen.” She glances at the hole still evident on the wall.

Castiel lets this sink in. Meanwhile, another insight. “And you healed me.”

It’s not a question. She nods an answer anyway. “Only after you let go.”

“Thank you.”

For the first time since the conversation’s started, she’s uncomfortable. “Don’t be mistaken. I would’ve done it for any human,” she mutters. “You’re responsible for all the chaos out there. Healing you itself could be a statement in this war, and I'm not...”

Castiel is tired. He wants to go back to watching How It’s Made videos—they’ve been effective at tuning out… everything. He doesn’t want to stand here in the only place he has left, being scrutinized by another he’s hurt and being reminded of his mistakes. He just wants everything to go back to the way it was.

Having this line of thought makes Castiel burn with shame even more.

“Why did you do it?” she asks, oblivious to his inner thoughts. “Why did you help Metatron?”

Here’s another angel whose life he’s changed for the worse—someone who was forced to experience the brutal aftermath of his direct actions. She doesn’t throw anger at him like a weapon—she only looks weathered, tired from the war that Castiel’s been avoiding while she’s out there helping Dean and Sam to fix Castiel’s mistake.

He’s useless, in his dreams and in reality. He hasn’t learned. For years he thought he could fix it all if he just did something right, and all he’s done is cause more harm. There must be hundreds, no, thousands of others like her out there because of him.

The least he can do is talk.

He takes a deep breath. “Everything I say will only sound like an excuse.”

She assesses this and shakes her head. “I still want to hear it from you. I have that much right, Castiel.”

She’s right.

For what feels like in a long time, Castiel talks. He tries not to mutter the parts that he’s especially not proud of, and he tells her everything. Muriel listens without interrupting him—without ever showing her judgement—with her hands folded in her laps as her stare bores into him. He stares at the wall slightly to her left ear to make it easier to talk, retelling what Metatron offered, that it felt like the best—the only—option at the time, how he didn’t know. It doesn’t matter now, but he truly didn’t _know_.

He stumbles when he gets to how Metatron cut out his grace and banished him to Earth along with everyone else, and still Muriel says nothing. He confesses to Hael’s death, and how she tried to take him as a vessel.

There’s a bit of silence after that. Muriel doesn’t look angry. “I’ve never met her,” she says.

“She created the Grand Canyon.”

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“It is.”

“Who else?” she asks. “Who else, Castiel?”

Balthazar, Rachel, Hester. Samandriel. Anna. Countless others who were killed during the war against Raphael. Some names that he hasn’t spoken out loud in years.

The bunker is absolutely silent, almost as if there are only two of them and this room the entire world as Castiel confesses his sins. His head is bowed as Muriel evaluates him.

“What will you do now?”

Castiel jerks his head up. Muriel stares back at him, the power behind her voice both familiar and unrecognizable. Angelic. He wonders if that’s how he sounded when he still had his grace.

“I don’t know.”

Muriel mulls over this. She gives a little sigh. “Naomi is dead. Did you know?”

He shakes his head. It doesn’t shock him.

“Do you know anything else about the war going on at all?”

Castiel shakes his head again. It’s the only thing he can do.

“There’s a group of angels who wants to talk to you.”

“What do they want?”

“For you to lead them back to Heaven. They want no part in this war, either. They just want to go back home.”

“I’m not an angel anymore.”

“You will always be one of us, Castiel.”

Castiel shakes his head again. He can’t lead them into what’s sure to be their deaths—not again. “You’re better off without me.”

She shows no remorse—only resignation. She expected this. “I’ll tell them what you said. But if you ever change your mind… I’ll be around.”

She walks back out through the door, and Castiel doesn’t stop her.

He sits alone in his dark room.

* * *

Castiel cleans. He dusts the furniture, he scrubs the floor, and he washes his bed sheets. He finds a bulb in one of the cabinets to change the light in his room that’s been flickering for a while. Dean and Sam are still not back by the time he’s done, so he moves onto the bunker’s communal washroom with the excellent showers—anything to get him on his feet and distract him from his own thoughts. He makes an effort to stay away from the TV that blinds him to everything around him, though it’s extremely hard at first. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his arms feel like they’re about to fall off.

He’s wrestling with one of the toilets when there’s an unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the metal steps of the front foyer. Castiel pauses. The footsteps are too sure in their steps to be an intruder. They pause suddenly and backtrack almost frantically.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice calls.

“In here,” he replies, ignoring the way his chest seems to shrink and expand at the same time. He suddenly finds himself intensely focused on one spot on the toilet seat. He listens to Dean approach him as a steady beat against the floor. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Oh.” Dean’s voice is just beyond the walls. “Uh. Sorry, man. Didn’t know you were, uh…”

“It’s fine.” Castiel flushes grime down the toilet. “Is everything alright?”

“What? I, um.”

Castiel holds his breath. He waits for an answer. He waits for Dean to walk away. When nothing happens, Castiel bites back a sigh and walks out of the stall. Dean is hovering by the washroom entrance, looking up sharply when Castiel makes an appearance. An array of expressions flashes past before Dean’s face settles into a neutral one.

“I was just about done. What’s wrong?”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Wash your hands.”

Castiel pointedly pulls his gloves off.

“This world is _full_ of germs,” Dean continues. “And every time you go to the toilet and touch anything in there—which, by the way, did you seriously wear gloves to the bathroom?”

“I was cleaning.” Castiel holds up a boot polishing brush, which he’s repurposed when he couldn't find anything to scrub with.

“Oh. Uh. Okay.”

“Did you actually need me for anything?”

“What?” Dean blinks. “No, I just—” He stops with his mouth open. “Uh.” He licks his lips. “Nevermind. So hey, look at you, out and about. Had enough of the TV for company?”

Dean doesn’t say it to be malicious. There’s real worry underneath the tease, but it only works to emphasize Castiel’s cowardice. “I thought you went with Sam to talk to Crowley. Where is Sam?”

Dean’s grin falters. “Geez, nice to see you too, Cas.” He scratches his cheek. “Crowley said something stupid, so I came back to check it out. Turned out the slimy son of a bitch was lying, but.” He shrugs.

“You took _Crowley’s_ words as truth?”

“Well.” Dean’s eyes flicker up and down, and his lips quirk up into a smile. “It doesn’t matter. He was wrong, so.”

Castiel wonders, but he doesn’t ask him to expand on it. He’s sure it was something very important if it had Dean rush back to the bunker like this.

They haven’t talked since Dean asked him about the gates to Heaven. Castiel assesses Dean to check if he has any wounds from his trip, and finds Dean watching him in the same way. Castiel averts his eyes.

“I’m glad you made it back safely, then,” he mumbles, and he’s about to make his retreat when Dean grabs his arm.

“Um.” Dean lets go with a slide of his hand. Castiel regrets wearing only a t-shirt. Dean’s touch on his skin burns. “How’s your wound?”

Dean taps his own right arm, and Castiel’s hand shoots up to cover the bandage. “It’s healing.”

“Can I see?”

Castiel would be lying if he didn’t say he’s been waking from nightmares of being back in his dreamscape, and at those times he’s undone his bandages to check if the wound was still there to make sure he’s truly back. Somehow the unhealed wound seems like another one of his failures, and he doesn’t want Dean to see it.

Castiel nods anyway, and lets Dean carefully unwrap the bandage. It’s strangely private even though they’re standing in the middle of an open hallway. Dean sucks in a breath between his teeth. Whatever he sees, he’s not happy with it.

“C’mere,” Dean says with a tug on his wrist. “I’ll redress it for you.”

Castiel lets him lead them to Dean’s room. Dean makes him settle down on his bed while he forages for medical supplies, and redresses the wound methodically—he’s precise and careful, and his attention focused only on the wound. It gives Castiel a chance to get a good full look at Dean.

He suddenly feels so weary, like he’s been running for forever. There’s so many unspoken rules about the ebbs and flows of human emotions, and everything seems to weigh him down at once. It’s overwhelming. It’s unbearable. He wants to sink into Dean’s touch, climb into his smiles and live there forever, and tell him. He wants to tell him.

“Did the djinn do this?”

Castiel snaps back to attention, and finds Dean with an inquisitive look. “No.” There’s no way Dean knows what he’s been thinking about, but Castiel’s face burns. “There was an angel after me.”

“Ah. We saw his body.”

There’s a hint of pride in that, but it’s soon gone as Dean focuses back on treating him. Castiel wonders if he can play up his ability to fight to appeal to Dean. It would make him more useful as a hunter. The line of thought is still not enough to distract him from the way Dean digs his thumb into the meat of his arm, dragging it along every time he has to readjust his grip on the arm.

“Why didn’t you call me, Cas?”

Dean’s lips are a tight line, and Castiel studies his face to make sure that he heard him correctly. The only indication that anything happened at all is the way Dean’s hand falters a little in action, slowing down as he focuses on receiving Castiel’s answer. Castiel swallows around the lump that’s formed in his throat.

“You were busy.”

“So it’s fine if you just up and died on me?”

Castiel isn’t prepared for the anger, but it’s something he knows. “You had your hands full with Sam,” he snaps.

Dean huffs unkindly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips twisted into a wry smile.

This in itself is frustrating. He doesn’t want to fight with Dean. Why is it that every time Castiel wants to care about someone, it becomes like… this?

Dean hasn’t moved, and Castiel realizes it’s because he’s done redressing his wound. He hasn’t let go of Castiel’s arm—his hand’s slid down from where the wound is, and now lightly holds one of his wrists. His eyes roam over the white clean bandages that protect the healing wound underneath, and he’s very, very still.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly. It feels fragile and Castiel holds his breath. “Cas, I should’ve looked for you sooner.”

Here is Dean again, blaming himself for everything that’s happened when it’s far from the truth. If anything, this is entirely on Castiel for being so stupid to believe anything Metatron said, yet Dean thinks somehow this involves him being in the wrong.

“But you found me,” Castiel offers. Dean shakes his head. “Dean, I’d really be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

Dean huffs again, but this time it comes out weaker.

Castiel closes his eyes. He’s not sure if he’s ready to talk about it, but he’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready. If it gives Dean any consolation, it may as well be now.

“I didn’t want to leave my dream,” Castiel says quietly. “Part of me wanted to stay behind.”

Dean lifts his head, his gaze sharp and attentive.

“It would’ve been the easier choice to take than to face my mistakes.”

“But you left,” Dean cuts firmly. “That’s all that matters in the end.”

Castiel levels his gaze steadily and meets Dean’s eyes. “And you found me, in the end.”

“That’s different.”

“I won’t let you sit here and think that this is all your fault somehow.” Castiel itches to pull Dean in towards him, but he doesn’t. “Dean, it isn’t.”

Dean’s finger twitches against Castiel’s wrist. He doesn’t let go. He’s still frowning, and Castiel wants to wipe it away somehow. Dean licks his lips. “Okay—well, the angels falling, that’s not on you either, man. You thought you were doing the best thing for your family.”

He appreciates Dean for his efforts. His thumb is absently rubbing the inside of Castiel’s wrist as he’s deep in thought, and Castiel wonders if Dean knows he’s doing it or if he knows the effect it has on Castiel. It somehow feels like Dean’s healing a wound that he didn’t know existed. Almost like he’s being comforted, in a way.

“And I get it.” Dean shrugs with one shoulder. “Been there, done that. But I don’t see how this is your fault at all. This is all on Meta-douche.”

Castiel smiles at the fitting nickname. “I’m sure.”

“Hey, I’m trying to help out here,” Dean says, and he smiles so easily, like the heavy atmosphere from before never existed. “It’s just the truth. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Castiel shakes his head fondly. “If I’d known I was coming back to you in such an agreeable mood, I would’ve done it sooner.”

He means it as a gentle tease, just as how Dean pokes fun at him all the time. It has the opposite effect of what Castiel wanted, and Dean tenses. Castiel blinks.

“Hilarious.” Dean gives a small smile, but it’s more forced, the ease between them gone again. He drops Castiel’s wrists. “Anyway, I should really call Sam. Let him know I’m home.”

“Oh.” Castiel supposes this is his cue to leave, and he’s unable to do much else at this sudden turn of events. Dean stays seated, and doesn’t face him. “Okay.”

Castiel stays for a moment to see if Dean would say anything else, but he doesn’t. Castiel leaves the room without another word, and clicks the door shut behind him. Dean’s just separated by a wall, but his sudden absence is an ache, and it’s like there’s a huge gap beside him.

Castiel stands in the hallway under its bright light, and absently rubs his thumb over his wrist.

* * *

There’s a knock on the door, and Castiel feels justified enough to be wary of visitors to his room at this point.

His wariness doesn’t grow less when he finds Dean on the other side, and sucks in a panicked breath. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. The smile on his face falters a little, but it doesn’t disappear completely. “You busy?”

Castiel hasn’t done anything useful since he’s gotten here. They both know the answer to this socially courteous question. “No. What is it?”

“You wanna, uh, join us for dinner? There’s company here, and we figured…” Dean shrugs.

There’s tension here, and whatever it is that Castiel did wrong this time, he wants to make it right. He lied in the bed the rest of the afternoon and thought about it, but this is the only thing he could come up with. “Dean, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable before.”

“Wha—huh?”

“Earlier, what I said upset you.”

Castiel shifts his weight on his feet. Dean’s smile falls, and he stares at Castiel now, his shoulders sagged.

“I… Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Dean says, and claps him on his shoulders. Dean makes a sound that’s between a laugh and a huff, trying to defuse the situation. “I wasn’t upset or anything.”

Now Castiel knows Dean is lying, but he lets it drop in favour of letting Dean lead them back to the kitchen. He glances at Dean, but Dean doesn’t seem upset. He doesn't look happy either, but at least he's not upset. He's glad.

So glad that he forgets what Dean said about having company, and finds himself confronted by a red-hair woman as soon as he steps into the room.

“So _you’re_ the Castiel I heard so much about!” Charlie smiles wide and big, and her short red hair adds to the effect of her flame-like enthusiasm. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

There’s another woman in the kitchen, and Castiel glances back between her and Charlie with a smile. “And you, too. I—”

She runs into his arms for a hug, and he finds that he doesn’t need further words. It’s nice, the hug. He shakes Eileen’s hand, who’s delighted to know that Castiel can sign.

They have pizza for dinner, and Charlie tries to tell everyone’s fortune through a folded piece of paper, having them choose a number and a direction. When Castiel seriously asks her if her fortune-telling is accurate, and if he’s going to wake up with whatever a mullet is, she almost falls over her chair from laughing.

“It’s not a _real_ fortune,” she explains in-between wheezes. Dean, Sam, and Eileen are almost roaring from laughing too much as well, and Castiel frowns at them. He doesn’t get what’s so funny. “Well, you _might_ grow a mullet in the future—that’s really up to you.” More snickering from where Dean sits. Castiel glares—half from not understanding why they’re all laughing at him and half because _Dean’s_ laughing at him—and Dean almost snorts a bite of pizza up his nose from trying to hold his laugh in. Sam thumps him on his back while Eileen holds onto Sam’s arm, gasping for breath.

Charlie ignores all this. “It’s just a silly game from when I was a kid.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is that it’s _fun_ , Cas,” Charlie says. “You watch _Game of Thrones_ ‘cause it’s fun, not because it’s a history documentary.”

Ah. The example is sound, and he’s reminded of his walks in the woods that he doesn’t need, but takes for himself anyway. “I understand.”

“Besides, if I was really psychic, we would’ve found the gate to Heaven by now.”

The easy atmosphere around the table suddenly grows stale, and the laughter dies down as Charlie realizes the gravity of what she said in front of Castiel. Her eyes dart between him and the Winchesters, and shrinks a little. Dean plays with the label on his beer bottle, and Charlie takes a bite out of her pizza for something to do. Eileen has an eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment further.

Sam finally coughs, and breaks the tension in the room. “Uh, so—”

“Tell me about the gates.”

All of their attentions focuses on Castiel. He scrunches his pants in his fist under the tale as he meets Dean’s stare. “The angels. They need help, and I can’t sit it out forever. I should be the one out there, not you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “we’ll take care of the angels. You’re human now—it’s not your problem anymore.”

“ _You’re_ humans,” Castiel replies. His heart is at his throat, steadily beating louder and louder. “I caused this, Dean. I should—”

Dean shakes his head. “This whole mess ain’t your fault. I thought we went over this.”

“It’s not _your_ responsibility to fix it either,” Castiel snaps.

Dean physically recoils a little from where he sits, and Castiel regrets it immediately. “Dean, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right,” Dean says in the tone that Castiel absolutely hates hearing: the cool, indifferent voice that pretends this hasn’t affected him at all. “Sorry I bothered at all.”

Dean abruptly gets up from his seat before Castiel can get in another word, and leaves. He should go after him, but he finds himself frozen in the seat, staring at the empty space Dean left behind. Sam, Charlie, and Eileen all glance at each other, and by some sort of telepathy that only exists between them, Charlie goes after Dean while Sam and Eileen stay behind.

Eileen looks at Sam and squeezes his arm. “Well, I’m beat,” she says. “Good night, everyone.”

Sam murmurs a good night, but Castiel is too busy staring at the plates of pizza laid out on the table. It’s hard to believe they were having a peaceful dinner just a few minutes ago.

As soon as Eileen leaves the kitchen, Sam flings his huge arms out. “Dude, what the hell was that about?”

“I don’t want a lecture, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head in exasperation. “I know you’re upset about the angels falling, Cas, but you don’t need to take it out on him. You know he’s been busting his ass to help them out.”

“I _know_ that,” Castiel replies. He feels anger bubbling from within. This isn’t what he’s angry about, but it’s hard to stay calm after that. “I’m saying that I’ll take proper responsibility for it now. You don’t need to ‘bust your asses’ anymore.”

“Why are you being suck a dick about this?” Sam asks with anger of his own, which is something Castiel doesn’t expect. “No, seriously, Cas. Is our help not good enough for you or something?”

“What?” Castiel is too surprised to keep it out of his voice, his anger momentarily forgotten. “No, of course not. Both of you’ve been a great help.”

Sam’s anger distorts into a confused frown. “Then why don’t you just let us _help_ you?”

“ _Because—_ it’s not your problem anymore,” Castiel repeats. Did Sam not hear him the first time?

Sam’s upright and tense shoulders slump back down. “Cas, this isn’t just your problem.”

“I know that. There’s been a lot of damage on Earth, and—“

“No, you don’t get it. Your problem is _our_ problem. Because you’re our friend.” Sam pauses. “Because you’re family. I thought you felt the same way.”

Of course he did, once. Of course he wants to. Of course, of _course_ he wants it. How could he, how _dare_ he? He could barely patch things up when he had all the powers in the world. If he fucks up as a human, how could he ever amend for his mistakes?

Sam watches as Castiel struggles to reply, and sighs. “Nevermind. I’ll just… I’ll let Muriel know that you want in.”

Before Sam can leave too, Castiel grabs him. “Sam, wait. I—”

Sam has more than enough strength to snatch his hand away, but he doesn’t. Much to Castiel’s relief, Sam stills. “What?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. He tries to conjure everything into words. He’s not good at it, but he tries. He has to. “Sam, I—I never thought of you as a _hindrance_. I just… don’t want to get you involved in my crap anymore. I would never forgive myself if you got hurt because of me again.”

Sam’s anger softens. “Cas, it’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine.” Why don’t any of them _get_ it? “You shouldn’t have to pay the cost of all this _because_ of me.”

Sam’s expression falls. He runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes directed at the ceiling. “Cas, I couldn’t close the gate of Hell.”

Castiel fails to see what this has anything to do with the current conversation, but he humours him and nods.

“And—I could’ve saved so many people if I had. This whole Crowley Abaddon mess right now? It’d be gone if I had enough courage.” Sam deflates a little. “So, yeah. I get it. I get what you’re saying.”

Castiel frowns and shakes his head. That’s different. “Sam, the harm that Crowley and Abaddon does isn’t your fault.”

Sam blinks. “Do you even hear yourself? We’re saying this isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have possibly known what Metatron was planning.”

“But I… I enabled him. I…”

“Look, would you have done it if you knew what Metatron was up to?”

“Of course not,” Castiel says, horrified. “Why would you think that?”

“I didn—the point is, you have to stop blaming yourself for something you didn’t even mean to do, and let us _help_ you.”

It’s hard to accept it. A part of him wants to agree with Sam, let it all be someone else’s fault, but he’s so used to thinking it’s all his fault that it’s hard to accept anything else as the truth. Yet he looks up at Sam now, full of sincerity and believing in everything he speaks of, and he can’t deny him that.

Castiel nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, and clears his throat when his voice comes out cracked. “I’ll try.”

Sam smiles gently. “Good.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I just… want you to know that I’m glad you’re still with us,” he says firmly. “Nothing is worth losing you.”

Sam blinks. Next thing Castiel knows, Sam is pulling him into a hug, and he stands in his arms stiffly. He’s not opposed to it, but just like with Charlie, he’s not sure what to do.

Sam’s entire body shakes a little as he gives a watery laugh. “This is where you hug back, Cas.”

“Oh.” Castiel hesitantly puts his own arms around Sam’s huge body. It isn’t as if he could still crush this man if he’s not careful. “Right.”

The warmth seeps into his clothes, and Castiel closes his eyes for just a moment. Something that’s been tightly coiled around in his chest loosens.

This is nice. He likes hugs. He also never knew just how strong Sam is by human standards.

After a while, Sam releases him, and Castiel finds a small smile settled on his face that’s mirrored on Sam’s face. Sam inclines his head towards the direction Dean stormed off in. “You should probably go and talk to him.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam pats him on the back. “Good luck.”

Castiel nods, and resolutely walks towards Dean.

* * *

The door is slightly ajar, and low voices travel from the room. He can see Charlie’s bright hair bobbing sideways as she talks with Dean.

“—or maybe, just _maybe_ , it was lying,” Charlie insists.

“Like hell,” Dean replies with a disgruntled grunt. “You know how djinns work, Charlie. We both do. Maybe it was lying about other things, but…” There’s a small pause. “How else am I supposed to have seen that? It was…”

“But what if it _wasn’t?”_ Charlie interjects, and Dean grows quiet again. “You guys seriously need to talk.”

Dean sighs, and mumbles something.

“Stop that,” Charlie replies with thinly veiled disgust. “Just _talk_. It’s not like I’m saying you should—”

Castiel knocks, and the conversation halts.

“Sam?” Dean calls.

“No,” Castiel replies, and the silence somehow grows more eerily quiet.

There’s shuffling, and Charlie soon meets him at the door. “Hey.” She offers a smile, and glances back into the room. “Good timing. I was just about to go to bed, anyway.”

Castiel nods. “Good night, Charlie.”

She smiles softly, and brushes past him as she leaves them to privacy. Castiel only hesitates for a second before he reaches in and opens the door.

Dean is sitting on his bed, watching the way his hands clench into fists. His hair’s tossed like he’s been tugging at it out of frustration, and a pulse in his neck jumps while Castiel watches. Castiel stands very still by the door. Neither of them speak.

Castiel thought about what he wanted to say to Dean on his way over. He practiced the words in what little time he had and rearranged them and practiced them again so that he wouldn’t do what he’s doing right now. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say. An apology, for what he doesn’t exactly understand yet. A clarification maybe, for something he didn’t understand until minutes ago. A confession if necessary, for something he understands too clearly now.

Something. Anything.

“Dean.”

Dean glances at him, more out of instinct for having his name called than anything else. Castiel’s lips are dry. Dean looks back down.

“Dean,” Castiel calls out again, helplessly.

“Yeah,” Dean replies flatly. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Something in the air snaps. Dean has fire in his eyes as he gets off the bed and stomps towards Castiel with newfound vigor fueled by anger. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing _for_?” he asks, spitting the words into the air, his finger accusingly poking Castiel’s chest.

Castiel opens his mouth to say _for everything_ , but thinks better of it. “For upsetting you.”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches, and his entire body gears away as he sucks in a shuddering breath. He lets it out as a ground-splitting sigh.

“Dean.”

“What?” Dean snaps, still not looking at him.

Castiel wants to grab him by the shoulder and force him to turn around, but he doesn’t do that. “Dean, look at me.” Dean turns towards him again, but still frowns down at the floor. “Dean.”

Dean glares up, and Castiel holds his angry gaze. He takes every emotion Dean’s willing to give him. “Dean, I can’t know why you’re upset if you don’t talk to me.”

“Why do you care?”

“Dean,” Castiel replies with exasperation. Dean’s stubbornness is like trying to chip at an immovable wall.

Maybe it’s his exasperation that Dean finds familiarity in, and suddenly makes everything slow down as they breathe together with their chests almost pressed together, but not touching. For a second, Dean is about to open up and Castiel sees it, and he waits, patiently, patiently.

And then, it’s gone. Dean deflates as all the fight bleeds out of him, and he deflates and deflates until his shoulders sag and the fire in his eyes dulls, and disappointment sours in Castiel’s stomach.

“Nevermind,” Dean mumbles. “Drop it, Cas. It was stupid.”

Castiel knows he can drop it. But this has gone on long enough. Weeks of dancing around each other like this while Dean tries to play the good host and Castiel the ever sullen guest in his house, Castiel is sick of this push and pull, and more than anything, Castiel will not let this grow and fester into something ugly inside Dean’s heart when he has the chance to try to make this work. He won’t be responsible for that.

Castiel grabs him by the shoulder now and turns him around to make him look at him, just like how Dean taught him to do all those years ago. “Don’t,” Castiel says, and Dean’s unmasked surprise meets him. “Don’t hide from me. Please.”

It’s all it takes for all of Dean’s anger to crumble down. He looks like he wants to run away, so Castiel grips onto his shoulder tightly.

“I said to drop it,” Dean says weakly.

“I won’t,” Castiel replies. “We need to talk. I—” Castiel closes his eyes. _Tell him, tell him._ “Dean, I’ve failed enough.”

Dean dials back down, almost physically leaning away from him. The tension in Dan’s shoulders loosens a little as he listens.

“Everything I tried, I’ve failed and only made worse,” Castiel continues. “And now, I don’t have my powers.”

Dean frowns. Maybe Castiel shouldn’t have reminded him how useless he is, but Dean prompts, “So?”

“I can’t…” _Tell him, tell him_. “I can’t fail you, too. Not again.”

Dean opens his mouth, and closes it again. “Cas, you—” Dean presses his lips together, his knuckles almost white from clenching his fists so tightly. He licks his lips.

What Dean says next isn’t something he expects. “Do you remember what the djinn said to me? Before it knocked you out?”

Castiel stares, ignoring his beating heart. To understand what it feels like to love someone is terrifying, but he won’t deny it anymore. “There are parts that I don’t… It, um. Played with my memories.”

Dean frowns. “You never told me that.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not important now. What did you see?”

Dean looks doubtful, but he hears Castiel’s request to drop it. “It—told me what you wished for.”

Dean shoots him a curious glance to see if Castiel understands. Castiel hardens his resolve. _He knows._

_Tell him. Tell him._

Misunderstanding his lack of reply as not recognizing what Dean’s talking about, he continues, “It said that you—” Dean huffs, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes like he usually does. “And hey, I get it. But if you couldn’t stand me to the point of—changing me entirely—you should’ve said so from the get-go.”

Castiel frowns.

What?

“What?”

“The djinn, Cas.” Dean’s voice cracks. “It said that you wanted me to be different. Better.”

“It lied,” Castiel replies automatically, because how could Dean even think that it was true?

But apparently the idea of it doesn’t sound as ridiculous for Dean, as he bitterly replies, “Oh, really? Tell me, then, why I’m not—” Dean bites back his words with a snarl. “What you could’ve _possibly_ wished for, when everything in your dream was _exactly_ the same.” Dean pauses, as if it physically pains him to say it out loud. “Except _me_.”

Castiel stares.

The muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps as he clenches down on them. His fists are gripped tightly, and his green eyes shine brightly against the lamp on his nightstand.

Castiel stares, but nothing changes.

He can’t believe this.

Dean thought—

He actually thought that Castiel wants nothing to do with the real Dean.

That he isn’t good enough, that Castiel would want him as anything other than exactly as himself, as if that sort of thought is something he could even entertain.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He feels like such an idiot.

“See,” Dean says, and Castiel now hears the hint of genuine hurt behind the anger, “you can’t. Because we both know that’s the fucking truth. So, just—”

“My wish wasn’t to change you,” Castiel says quickly, and Dean halts in whatever he was about to say. “It was to stay exactly as we are.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something, and closes it again with a confused frown. It gives Castiel enough time to launch into an explanation.

“I—I wished for the angels to have never fallen. I lived here with you and Sam. We… archived Bobby’s books, and we solved cases together.” Castiel watches as Dean’s anger dissipates, replaced by something else he can’t identify. Castiel feels naked in a way he’s never felt before, vulnerable as he lays out his fantasies to the man he wants them from. He won’t look away from Dean. “But it became clear soon enough that neither of us stay the same, do we? It was an impossible wish in the end, and the djinn could never keep up. I just…”

Castiel swallows.

_Tell him, tell him._

“I wished,” Castiel says, “for a life with you.”

Dean is very still.

The words hang between them in the room.

Dean takes in a sharp breath, and it’s too loud in the silence.

Dean clears his throat.

“You,” Dean starts, and licks his lips. “Cas, that’s one modest dream.”

Castiel’s heart grows, and grows, and it flutters in place and it doesn’t cease as he runs it over and over again in his head. “It isn’t for me.”

“If you’d asked, if I knew that’s all you wanted, I—” Dean is confident but still so terrified, and Castiel thinks he understands exactly what he’s feeling. “I could’ve given you that this entire time.”

He makes it sound so simple.

Maybe, it can be that simple.

Dean steps forward, and hesitantly reach out to settle his hands on his hips. When he realizes Castiel isn’t stepping away, the hands firmly stay. They’re slotted together and it feels like the easiest, most natural thing that’s happened to Castiel.

Dean radiates warmth, and Castiel’s breath hitches at the way he feels Dean’s breath on his lips. His stomach tightens, and he’s so dizzy he’s glad Dean’s holding onto him. There’s almost a challenge in Dean’s eyes, a question, as if Castiel would deny what Dean is offering him.

They’re so close. They’re inches away. It’s taken them so long to get here.

Castiel says what he wants. "Then."  _Tell him, tell him_. “Can I stay with you?”

Dean nods, slowly, once, twice, and swallows. “Yeah.”

It isn’t how Castiel imagined it. Nothing about Dean is how Castiel imagines, and maybe that’s why the djinn failed so spectacularly to capture him in his dreams. Even in his dreams, he was just a mirage, and here, now, Dean is a solid weight around him as they kiss.

Castiel wraps his arms tighter around Dean. More than anything, he wants to be as close to Dean as he can. _Finally, finally._ They kiss, and his entire body buzzes in tune, focuses on the way Dean’s hands come up to cup his face, and they kiss, and _finally_ , his heart sings, _he knows._

It’s so easy to fall into bed with Dean, and so easy to lie there and watch Dean as they breathe together. Castiel is almost afraid to reach out and touch the side of Dean’s eyes that crinkle when he smiles softly like he’s doing right now, afraid that this is just another dream that’s been improved from his previous ones, but he knows it can’t be a dream when Dean kisses him again and again, so gently like Dean can’t believe this either and he’s checking to make sure every second they’re apart. Castiel’s eyes flutter shut, and he sighs into them, his heart so full that he’s overwhelmed and the only way to express it is to kiss Dean again. Dean takes it gladly, and it’s so much, it’s so _much_ , and he loves, he loves, he loves.

They lie here with their hands linked together as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. The lights from the nightstand lamp dances in Dean’s eyes, and Castiel studies the way they move while Dean watches him in turn.

“Hey,” Dean whispers.

“Hello,” Castiel whispers back. It seems appropriate.

Dean’s thumb absently rubs Castiel’s knuckles. He’s using his own arm as a pillow, folded under his head. “We’re better together, Cas.”

“I see that.”

Dean blinks, and lets out a genuine laugh that shakes the bed, and the sound is warm gold that trickles down to Castiel’s heart. “No, I mean—shit.” Dean brings Castiel’s hand up and lays a soft kiss, a brush of his lips. “I mean all of us. We’re stronger together, so…” He swallows thickly. “Don’t say shit like how it’s none of my business, or that I have nothing to do with it.”

Given context, Castiel finds all of their previous conversations forced under a new light. Castiel thought he was being a hindrance, but he was only making Dean feel unhelpful. Unwanted. They are certainly a pair.

Castiel thinks back to his conversation with Sam. “We’re family.”

The phrase makes Dean light up. “Yeah, exactly,” he says, his voice strangled. “You get it now?”

Castiel is part of his family.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, as sincerely as he can. He pulls Dean in to close what little gap they had between them for another kiss, and Dean wraps his arms around Castiel to hold on. He holds on, and he doesn’t let go.

Finally.

* * *

Castiel talks to Muriel. Dean is in the room with them, even though he doesn’t need to be. His presence alone gives Castiel enough courage to stay in the room long enough to relay his interest in joining her cause.

Castiel talks to Muriel many times, who talks to Hannah, who talks to the rest of the angels that don’t want anything to do with Heaven’s civil war. He meets Hannah. He talks to many, many angels. With all the information they collect, they plan.

And Dean, Dean stays by his side.

* * *

When it happens, they’re in the middle of a strategy meeting with Hannah.

Castiel’s breath shortens, and it comes so quietly and so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s rushing out of the room until he’s already outside. He registers the array of confused voices calling after him, but it’s nothing but cacophony along with his pounding heart. He goes wherever his legs carry him, where there is no demanding or asking him questions or anyone needing him to make decisions.

Dean finds him on the roof. Everything is painted gold as the sun sets over the horizon. He hears Dean stop behind him, and he looks over to see him basked under the setting sun.

“Nice view,” Dean mutters as he takes a seat farther away from the edge than Castiel is. They’re up on the roof of the factory that’s built on top of the bunker. Being so high up should make his human instinct kick in, but he only feels calmer with his feet dangling in the air.

The field of gold stretches beyond the horizon, and a silhouette of a bird flies across the golden sky. He used to feel so much more grand, so much more than everything around him, so much like he was part of the sky that stretches before him. Capable of so much more.

Dean tentatively looks at Castiel, and Castiel gives him a tight quirk of his lips. He’s alright, he wants to say. They both know it’d be a lie, so he doesn’t.

“I’m not good at this,” Castiel says instead.

Dean’s eyebrows turn up.

“I thought,” Castiel starts, and the words stick in his throat. “I thought I could help, even just a little bit. I screwed up so much, and I just… thought I could at least manage this. But seeing all those angels, every one of them here because of me, I—”

Dean’s stare burns the side of his face, but Castiel fixes his eyes on the sun, nearly blinding him with its full glory.

“Hey,” Dean says gently, and Castiel glances at him sideways. “It’s fine, man. Screwing up is a perk of being human.”

“I don’t see how that’s a perk at all.”

“Sure it is.” Dean shrugs. “We screw up, and we learn. That thing about old dog never learning new tricks is bullshit. You just gotta stop beating yourself up first, you know?”

Castiel shoots him a levelled look, and Dean coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Pot calling the kettle black, et cetera. But seriously.” Dean nudges him with his shoulder. “You think I’m not terrified of the same shit?”

“You’ve been human your entire life,” Castiel says. “I’ve been human for less than a year. I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

“You’re more human than a lot of people I’ve met in my life.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Take it how you will.” Dean leans back. “And, well, until you figure it all out, you got me.” He grins, and slings an arm around his shoulder. “I got your back.”

Oh.

He’s so relieved, he almost feels delirious. The weight of Dean’s arm against his shoulder is grounding. It’s incredible that Dean cares so much, that Dean cares so much about _him_ , and it’s all real. It’s all real and he can’t believe any of it.

“Okay,” Castiel replies. “Okay. And I got your back.”

Dean’s expression softens. “I know you do.”

Dean kisses him, and Castiel responds with his own, and to love and be loved in return, to be so sure of something so good is incredible. They stay like that for a while, just until Castiel is a bit more calm, just until the cramp Dean gets in his arm from Castiel leaning against him is gone, just until they need to go back to dealing with responsibilities.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think your dream world would look like?”

Dean looks at Castiel, and then looks into the sky. The sun’s almost completely gone, the night chill quickly settling in. They still keep each other warm. “I got caught once, you know.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “I never knew.”

“Yeah. It was before I met you.” Dean shrugs. “And it was pretty trippy. But now? I don’t know,” he admits. “This world might be full of crap, but I’ve got Sam, and people I can call family, and you.” Dean pauses, and nudges Castiel. “Real you. So I’m good where I am. No need for fake worlds.”

Castiel closes his eyes. The words sink, sink, sink into his body, and take roots and ground him in place.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me, too.”

* * *

Metatron is smart. They finally come into contact with him through a computer monitor one night, and he is so very cunning with his seemingly defenseless acts and his tempting words, just as Castiel remembers. In front of all the angels gathered in the room, Metatron tries to make Castiel choose between his cause and the Winchesters.

Castiel glances up at Charlie, who silently urges him to keep Metatron occupied while she reverse-tracks his signal. He looks at the smug face staring back at him from beyond the glow of the screen, at the horror-stricken look on Dean’s face, at all the rest of the angels looking politely not interested, and thinks about just how much he wants to punch Metatron in the face.

Thankfully, Castiel’s silence from momentarily losing himself in the fantasy of knocking Metatron’s teeth out is enough for Metatron to draw his own conclusion. After so many years of isolation, he absolutely loves to hear himself speak.

Charlie gives a thumbs up. Castiel looks down at the screen, and smirks.

It’s enough. Metatron blinks, and sits forward as if that’ll give him more perspective into the room that he’s watching through a camera. Castiel straightens his posture, and looks at Metatron without wavering.

He’s dreamed about _this_ moment since they started planning.

“This is the start of your downfall, Metatron,” Castiel echoes. He raises his chin and looks down at him, thinking of the white room and being helpless as Metatron tore his grace out. Not anymore. “I hope you live it to the fullest.”

* * *

They go over their plan one last time before Hannah pulls him aside for a ‘talk’.

“The way Metatron spoke about you and the Winchesters…”

“Yes?”

“They’re important to you,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And… you’re important to them?”

Castiel smiles. “Yes.”

Hannah smiles back, hesitant. “I hope this doesn’t compromise the mission in any way.”

“Of course not.” Castiel frowns. “Why would you think that?”

“Well.” She looks around, for who he doesn’t know. “We just… figured that you’d be coming back with us after this. Back to Heaven. That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it?”

“I.” Castiel holds his tongue to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t realize I had a choice.”

Hannah blinks. “Of course you have a choice, Castiel. You’re the one getting us back.”

Castiel smiles, morose. “I don’t think everyone shares the sentiment, Hannah, but I’m grateful.”

“You’ll always be welcome to Heaven as long as our faction is in charge,” she says firmly. “As soon as we locate your grace, you’ll be one of us in no time.”

It’s then that Castiel notices someone stuttering in their steps behind them. It's Dean, looking like he’s been caught in the headlights. He's too far away to hear anything about their conversation, but he smiles apologetically and makes vague pointing gesture before he turns away to leave them alone. Hannah turns around to see who Castiel’s looking at, and a sort of understanding dawns for her.

“You look… different when you look at them. At him.”

Castiel realizes he’s smiling softly. “Hm?”

Hannah cocks her head to the side with a frown. She touches the center of her chest. “Caroline’s felt something similar for her husband, I think.”

“Caroline must love her husband very much.”

Hannah looks at him knowingly now, and drops her arm. “Yes. She does.”

Castiel walks her back to the war room, where the rest of the angels are waiting for Hannah before they head back out to their headquarters. She doesn’t say anything on their way back, but she speaks up at the last moment before she leaves. “You already made your choice long ago, haven't you?”

Castiel nods, no hesitation in his heart. “Yes, I have.”

* * *

They raid Heaven.

Castiel doesn’t lead the angels back as Metatron expects. He leaves that to Hannah, who infiltrates Heaven under the guise of betraying Castiel while he plays the bait as the false leader to draw Metatron out.

Once the angel tablet that Metatron was using is shattered, Hannah and Muriel and the rest of their group recapture Heaven. Everything happens fairly quickly after that—enough to spare most details. Once Hannah announces the seizing of Heaven, Bartholomew and Malachi come out of hiding. With hundreds of angels under her command, Hannah comes out on top.

The only other role Castiel has in this story is to keep Hannah from going power-crazy like he did once, but that isn’t something he needs to worry about. She’s more humble than he used to be, and he soon sees Metatron locked up behind heavenly bars.

“But I’ll give him his old job back after a few years, I think,” she says thoughtfully one night, when they’re discussing what to do with Bartholomew and Malachi.

Castiel pauses, just for a second. “You’re far more generous than I’ll ever be, then.”

Hannah gives a small laugh, but soon turns solemn. “I understand what it feels like to not be able to go back home. It’s the only reason why he did all this in the first place, and… if we keep him locked in there, who knows what he’ll do.”

Castiel lets that sink in, and he understands the sentiment now more than ever. Still, this is Metatron. “What if he tries to escape? Or worse?”

Hannah shrugs. She’s learned a few gestures while she’s been going in and out of the bunker. “We accept him back into Heaven, but if he tries anything, then right back to Earth he’ll go. He may not hold as much pride in being Heaven’s scribe as he did in being God’s personal one, but it should be better than being alone on Earth again.”

Castiel smiles. “You’ll be a good leader, Hannah.”

Hannah smiles back.

* * *

They retrieve Castiel’s grace the night Heaven officially closes its gates.

Hannah is the last to enter through the gate. Before she does, she hesitates. She turns back one last time before she releases her vessel.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It’s still not too late if you want.”

Castiel feels Dean tense beside him, but neither Dean or Sam try to do anything to stop him. He has a choice, and that alone is enough.

Castiel looks down at the vial of his grace in his hand. It pulses in his presence, swirling and trying to go back where it used to be. It’s warm and cool to the touch, and reflects light in every direction. Such a small thing that he can wrap his hands around used to define his whole existence—and now he has so much more.

He looks at the gate of Heaven. It’s a matching set. He smiles.

“You don’t need me anymore,” he says. “Heaven will be alright in your hands. That’s all I wanted for it.”

Hannah glances at Dean and Sam standing beside Castiel, and nods. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Goodbye, Hannah.”

He would be lying if he said he isn’t sad to see Heaven close up, probably for the last time during his human lifespan. But, maybe before he understood properly, Heaven hasn’t been where he calls home.

Dean’s hand rests on top of Castiel’s on the drive back home, his grace held in his other. He knows, without a doubt, that he’s made the right choice.

* * *

“Cas,” Dean says warily a few days later. “Are you sure about this?”

Castiel stops mixing the ingredients together. “Yes?”

“I mean…” Dean scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not saying that you shouldn’t, but maybe one day… you might…”

“Change my mind? No,” Castiel replies, and commences with the spell he’s created. “Not about this.”

It’s been something he’s planned ever since he heard about Hannah’s mission to get his grace back. Making sure to be very careful not to breathe it in, Castiel opens the vial and pours his grace into the bowl with the rest of the ingredients. It puffs up in a cloud of smoke and swirls into the mixture, shimmering slightly before it mixes in completely. Dean physically winces.

“I chose this, Dean,” Castiel reprimands gently. “I’ll never regret that.”

Dean still looks guilty about it as if somehow this is _his_ fault that Castiel chose to be with the people he loves. Castiel would joke that yes, he supposes it technically is, since Dean’s the one who is so wonderful and so incredible that Castiel ended up loving him so very much, but he can’t quite bring himself to say so while looking at the utterly stricken look of guilt clouding Dean’s beautiful face.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and when Dean looks up, he sneaks in a kiss. It’s nothing more than a quick pressing of lips together, but it’s enough to melt the look away. “Help me draw the sigils?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Dean holds up the papers Castiel’s pioneered the past few nights and squints up at them. “Still can’t believe you came up with all these.”

“Someone made the sigil-work you and Sam use,” Castiel points out. “Or did you think they appeared from thin air?” He starts on the left wall of the bunker while Dean covers the right.

“No, but—” Dean grunts as he tries to reach higher than his own height. “You’re such a nerd.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, and Dean restates, “It’s okay. You know I dig it,” with a wink and a grin. He doesn’t see the rush of heat that runs through Castiel’s chest, and he pretends to be annoyed with him instead, focusing back on the sigils.

The idea is to create a force field around the bunker to keep out anything that has ill intentions towards the residents. Infused with an angel’s grace— _his_ grace—it should be strong enough to keep out most of the evils. After they’re done with the bunker, they head to the Impala.

Dean stares down at his finger, coated with ingredients. “This won’t wash off or anything, right?”

“No. It’ll meld into the car once we finish.” Castiel pauses before he starts the spell. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallows thickly, and bobs his head once. He starts his sigil on the driver’s door. “Of course it’s fine.”

Castiel draws the last stroke of the sigil, and feels the pulse of his grace for the last time before it fades into the car, effectively binding to each other. Once Castiel makes sure the spell has taken place and looks to Dean, he finds Dean lightly touching where the sigil was. When Dean meets his eyes, he doesn't explain why he looks at Castiel so tenderly, with so much love that Castiel still can't understand it at times. But if anyone is capable of that much love, it is Dean.

Dean helps him up, and kisses him pressed against the car, slow and steady and sweet. Castiel relishes the moment, and finds Dean smiling. He finds that he’s smiling, too.

“So,” Dean says, tugging Castiel closer. “What now, Cas?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel inclines his head. There’s something very freeing about being able to say so without feeling guilt. “But… I think that’s alright. And I hope that it’ll be with you.”

Dean grins, and pulls him by the belt loops to kiss him again.

“That’s a promise.”

* * *

Castiel slips out of the lull of sleep, and into consciousness. He can hear Sam outside in the hallway, closing the door behind him to go on his morning jog. There are no windows here, but he knows that it must be a crisp, sunny day today. He can feel the slight chill in the air, and it’s pleasant against his warm skin where the rest of his body is buried underneath their blanket.

He can feel Dean’s nose pressed into the back of his neck, and Castiel turns carefully to watch him for a while. Dean rises and falls steadily, warm and snug as he sleeps. Castiel shifts in their bed, and Dean shifts in response, his head rolling onto the pillow. Dean breathes in deeply and lets out a satisfied sigh. His green eyes flutter open to meet Castiel’s, and his mouth quirks up. Dean hums, and playfully slides his fingers under Castiel’s hand that’s resting between them. He turns his palm up, and lightly drums at Castiel's fingers.

Dean shifts closer, his eyes half-lidded and his smile wide and lazy. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel smiles too, and intertwines their fingers together.

“Hello, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> There are many, many people I want to thank. 
> 
> [Katie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbel/pseuds/umbel), for swooping in to beta this fic and giving me so much advice to make this fic what it is today.
> 
> [Katie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenadevice/pseuds/no_regrets_coyote), for beta-ing and being my best friend in the whole world and never being afraid to give me the criticism I needed.
> 
> [Em](http://hellosaidthemoonisafangirl.tumblr.com/), for always encouraging me to keep going and reading parts of this fic and for always letting me know that I can do it. 
> 
> [Alicia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspiciousflashlight/pseuds/suspiciousflashlight), for being excited for me every time I talked to her about this fic and for always reassuring me.
> 
> [Chantal](http://pleaseturnoffthedoor.tumblr.com/), for beta-ing to emotional support to letting me talk to her about this fic literally every second of the past few years I've worked on this project, and for always believing in me. Thank you so so so much.
> 
> Writing this fic was a journey and a half, and I'm very very happy with what I have now. Thanks for reading!


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